


Pain Is Love

by allyisallama



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AU, Action, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Blood and Gore, But I swear this story is addicting, Child Abuse, Cutting, Depression, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gauken AU, Homophobia, I'm so sorry, Italian Mafia, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Murder, Prostitution, Punk England, Rape, Russian Mafia, Sexual Abuse, Suicide, Underage Smoking, Violence, and a secret the author is keeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:55:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2046948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyisallama/pseuds/allyisallama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has had a fucked up childhood. After his father died, he, his mom, and his four older brothers moved back to England, away from his best friend. Seven years have passed, and Arthur now has manacles clamped around him, the chains leading straight to Hell. His mum is cripplingly depressed, his step-dad is abusive and his brothers all abandoned him. And, oh yeah, he's moving back to America.<br/>It couldn't possibly get any worse.<br/>And then he gets slammed into a homophobic school, meets his old best friend, and gets caught up in a war and a promise that was made before his time. And how did Arthur's dad die?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is very slow going at first, but this is going to be a novel like story, so if you aren't willing to go through plot intricacies that rival published books and hopefully beat Twilight to the ground, this is not for you. but i hope you read it anyways, since feed back is a wonderful thing.

Pain Is Love

“... I'm moving back to England.” Arthur Kirkland announced, staring off in the distance and avoiding his long time best friend's gaze.  
After a moments pause, Alfred Jones replied- “What?” Arthur sighed, then repeated himself.  
“I am moving back to England.” He finally looks at Alfred, whose blue eyes are wide and shimmer with unshed tears behind wire rimmed glasses. Alfred lunges forward and grabs his friend by his ever-present sweater vest.  
“Why? You can't Artie! I'd miss you! Do you not like me anymore? Do you not wanna be my friend?” Arthur crumbles a bit at the kicked puppy look Alfred gives him.  
“Al, you know that's not it. I would stay in America if I could but it's not my decision. Mum's still upset about Dad's death- I think everything around here reminds her of him. She has friends in England, and it wouldn't be all that hard to move. I do hate to leave you here though, you know you're my best mate.” Alfred pulls him into an earth shattering hug, and Arthur feels his shoulder grow wet with Alfred's tears. Arthur wheezes in Alfred's strong grip, patting his head until he loosens up a bit.  
“It's just,” Alfred says, sniffling, “we were gonna be in fifth grade next year. We were finally gonna be the biggest kids at school.” Alfred looks down at the ten year old in his arms. Arthur had always been small, but Alfred didn't care. To him it just made his friend even cuter. Of course, Arthur didn't know he felt that way. He had been planning to tell him that next year, but now-.  
“There, there love. It's alright. We can write to one another after all.”  
Alfred sniffles some more, and hugs him tighter. “I'll miss you Artie.  
Arthur smiles fondly at the blond male towering above him.  
“I'll miss you too, Al.

Seven years later...  
“OI!” Arthur looked behind him quickly. It would seem that the bartender had finally figured out who started this fight. Oops.  
The bar around him was in chaos. It would seem that everyone had either left the bar or joined the fight that, by now, resembled a war. Arthur couldn't even remember what had started all this. In his current alcohol induced state, he could only remember that he had swung first, and thats all the burly bartender stomping towards him would care about.  
Time to go.  
Arthur quickly grabbed a bottle from a near-by table and smashed it and its contents over the head of the man currently pinning him to the ground. The man slumped over, unconscious, and Arthur quickly jumped up, maneuvering himself over to the stage while avoid flying fists. Grabbing his guitar and slinging it over his shoulder, he took a moment to thank whatever was out there that he had packed up his things immediately after he had played tonight. If he hadn't, he would probably have to leave behind many of his picks, music, cables, and what not. Fortunately he had decided to be semi responsible. Well, before getting drunk off his arse and starting yet another bar fight.  
Arthur frowned as he rushed out the door, barely avoiding the grasping hands of the bartender. He would have to make it up to John some how. After all, they had a deal, but with his behavior tonight, the bar's owner was likely to be raging mad at him.  
Again. Oops.  
After running a good ways away, he slowed, breathing in the crisp night air steadily. He had had more experience with these things than most, and the results of such encounters as these showed in his corded arms and legs. Not that he was buff, he was rather more lean, but it hardly mattered. As long as it got him out of trouble, he was fine with the body he had.  
Arthur frowned, readjusting the guitar on his back to a more comfortable position. It was only twelve o'clock; not exactly what one would normally call early, but still a time that Arthur was never home by. Arthur weighed his options. He could go home and risk his parents still being up, or he could try his luck at another bar, maybe find someone to spend the night with. However, he was underage, and as drunk and beat up as he was at the moment, he really didn't feel like trying his luck. Home it was then.  
Arthur started down the road towards his parent's house, lighting a cigarette as he went. Even as fucked up as he was, if his parents were up, it wouldn't be enough.

* * * * * *

Arthur stopped before his house, examining it as he gathered the courage to go in- courage being the last of his fag. Arthur inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke out at what was technically his house.  
It was beat up, looking abandoned but for the sole light in the window. The door was slightly skewed, and the wood on the porch was rotting. The whole place looked perfect for a murder scene. Dead grass, cracked windows, and a noticeable lack of flowers only added to the haunted feel of the place.  
Arthur scowled at the butt of his finally-gone cigarette, then stomped up the porch steps, throwing the door open with a muffled thump! Immediately he knew they were up.  
Well, fuck.  
He flicked his head to the side in a vain attempt to remove the hair from his eyes as he took in the heavy scent of beer that always seemed to accompany his step dad. Stalking into the living room, he found the man on their beat up couch guzzling can after can of the cheap liquor. Artur scowled in disgust at the man, then slowly crept around the back of the couch towards the stairs leading to his room. Reiner didn't seem to have noticed him yet, perhaps if he-  
“Arthur?” Well, shit. Arthur turned to look at his mother, who was just emerging from the kitchen.  
She was a tiny thing. Her face was gaunt- her clothes hung on her thin frame. Her face stood out in sharp relief. She blinked her dull green eyes, looking up at him. “Why're you home so late?” Arthur shot a quick glance back at the couch, where he noted with a sinking heart that he now had Reiner's attention.  
Without taking his eyes off Reiner, Arthur answered his mother. “I was practicing with me mates mum, and we just ran a bit late today.” his mom nodded slowly, blinking again. “Come on,” Arthur told her, in the most soothing voice he could manage when he was this drunk. “Let's get you off to bed. It is dreadfully late you know.” He mother nodded again, and Arthur helped her towards her bedroom, his eyes still locked with his step father's. His mother yawned as Arthur stood outside her bedroom. “Arthur?” Reluctantly, Arthur looked away from Reiner. He went into their bedroom, helping his mother into bed. “Arthur,” she says again, causing Arthur to look up, fondness in his eyes. “Yes mum?” His mother snuggled down in the covers, and smiled up at him. “We're moving back into our old house in America.” Arthur froze, his emerald green eyes meeting his mother's.  
“What?”  
His mother sighed happily, already drifting off. Soon she was fast asleep.  
Arthur stood there a moment more, in shock. He knew his mother had never sold their old house. He didn't think she could bear to. But move back? After seven years?  
A pain had started building in his head just thinking about it. Or maybe that was the alcohol wearing off. Either way, Arthur decided to leave the matter for the morning.  
He slipped out his mom's room, closing the door quietly behind him. He had started up the stairs when a metal can hit him in the head.  
Oh. Right. Reiner was up.  
Arthur looked back at him, sneering and dodging another empty beer can. “What do you want, arsehole?” Reiner growled a bit at his boldness.  
“It vould seem that you need to be taught anuder lesson, ja?” His thick German accent had been enhanced by the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol, making his words garbled and difficult to understand. The menacing look on his face as he tried to stand, however, was not hard to interpret. Perhaps if Arthur had not already been fighting tonight he would have confronted him. However, he ached all over, and his head now hurt like hell, so he bolted upstairs to his room and locked the door behind him. He sighed, then undressed and popped in the shower. Tomorrow morning was not going to be pleasant.

 

Time Skip

Arthur looked up at the house from his childhood, scarcely believing he was back. Memories welled up within him, memories of before his mother had married that bastard, before she had descended into this empty depression, before Arthur had started fighting, drinking, smoking, and generally destroying himself. Back when his brothers were still young enough to live with them.  
Back when his father was still alive.  
Arthur shook his head as he felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He hadn't cried in years, but this house was producing emotions within him that he hadn't felt in a while. Quickly he abandoned his line of thinking. If Reiner saw him crying he would get hit for sure. Best he just shove it down in some dark corner of his subconscious.  
Arthur looked back at the delivery truck. He had been tasked with unloading their possessions and making the house habitable while his mum went to a job interview and Reiner sat in the kitchen drinking. Arthur decided he better get a move on before his “dad” tried to intervene.  
Arthur sighed. This house really was ten times better than their old house. Sure it was a bit neglected from having been empty for four years, but it was still a nice house. Even so, Arthur knew he would spend little time here. The house held too many ghosts from his past, and too many monsters from his present for him to ever feel safe there.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred F. Jones bounded down the stairs of his house, screaming at the top of his lungs.  
“HEY! Mom, Mattie, come quick!”  
Alfred jumped into the kitchen as his twin brother raced over to him.  
“What's wrong Alfred? Are you hurt? Do I need to call 911?” Alfred's brother Matthew fussed over him while Alfred bounced up and down with his usual untamable energy.  
“No dude! Look over there, there see! Remember that British family, the Kirkland's? Well, some one's moving into their house! I wonder if they finally sold it? I wonder if they have a kid? Dude what if it's a chick? What if she goes to our school? C'mon Mattie, we totally have to check it out!” Matthew reeled a bit, trying to catch up with his twin's line of thought when said twin grabbed him by the elbow. Before he knew it, Alfred was dragging him out the door to talk to their new neighbor's supposed daughter. Suddenly realizing what was happening, Matthew grabbed the door frame, jerking Alfred back into the house.  
“Hey! What was that for? C'mon Mattie, we gotta-”  
“No, we don't. Alfred, they aren't even properly moved in yet. It would be rude to interrupt them right now, eh? Besides, mom isn't home right now, and I'm sure she'll want to meet our new neighbors when we do.” Alfred, who had been frowning slightly before, immediately broke out into a thousand watt grin. “Dude your right! I was wondering why mom hadn't come down yet. Thanks man! I'm so glad you live with us Mat! What would I do without you?” Matthew heaved a world weary sigh as Alfred happily trotted up stairs to his room, calling back to Matthew as he went- “Call me when mom gets home, I'm gonna go play that new video game I got! Later dude!” Alfred climbed the last few steps then turned, walking in to his room. He dug through a few- okay a lot- of things on his desk before holding up a thin case in triumph. He dodged his beanbag and excitedly put in the game. He gave a contented sigh as he sat back in his beanbag, controller on his lap and eyes idly watching the loading screen.  
As Alfred waited for his game to start, he thought back to all those years ago when he was ten years old.  
It wasn't a time he liked to think about.  
The Kirkland's young son had been Alfred's best friend for years. When he was younger, he had thought that he had a crush on the young stuffy Brit for a good amount of that time, but of course that couldn't be true, because guys don't like other guys, right? It was just wrong. So he couldn't have had a crush on Arthur.  
Right?  
Alfred shook his head,trying to clear his head of this line of thinking. He always got uncomfortable when he thought about Arthur, though he didn't see wh-  
The bell signaling that his game had finished loading jarred him out of his thoughts.  
“Alright! Time to be the hero!” Alfred, always easily distracted, immediately drowned in virtual guns, battles, and spy missions to save the world.

 

Time Skip

“Hey Al! Mom wants to go meet our new neighbor's now, are you ready to g-” before Matthew could complete his sentence, Alfred was down the stairs.  
“Hey Mom!” Alfred rushed forward enveloping his mother in a huge hug. Amanda Jones was by no means small. At 5 ft 11”, she towered over most women, and several men. However, at 6 ft 3”, her twin boys were able to obscure her quite easily. She was in shape- really the whole family was, but while Ms. Jones was lean, both of her sons had muscles on their muscles. She was, in Alfred's opinion, the most awesome mom ever, and had curly blonde hair with startling violet eyes. Between her two sons, Matthew looked more like his mom, though Alfred had her peppy personality.  
Amanda beamed up at her son. “Hi Alfred!” Alfred jumped back, grinning at her and tapping his foot at a frantic pace. “Can we go now?” He asked, his eyes wide with excitement. Amanda laughed at her son's exuberance, turning a mischievous grin on Matthew. “How on Earth did you manage to keep him here this long?” Matthew gave her a slightly stressed smile in return. Alfred shifted impatiently beside them. “Please? Can we go now?”  
Amanda laughed again, then replied, “Sure, you've waited long enough. Lets go.” Alfred let out an awesome whoop, and they set out.

 

 

Arthur wiped his forehead. He had long ago set up the house to living standards. He had also set up the TV and moved all the stuff into his parent's bedroom. All he really had left to do was move the last of the boxes into his room and get all his things set up. Then he planned on scouting out the bars in this area. Glancing at the pit stains under his arm, he decided that he would get a shower first. Reaching down for the next box, Arthur noticed several buff men coming in his direction.  
He glanced at them warily. He had never had good experiences with people who he didn't know just happening to take an interest in him. People always had reasons. Most often they were not good.  
Arthur set down the box and ran his fingers though his hair. Straightening, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the moving truck. He put on a scowl that clearly said “however bad you think you are, I am ten times worse.” (He had spent years perfecting it, and with every fight it got tougher, meaner, and scarier. )  
They were almost within speaking distance, and there was no longer any doubt that they were coming for him. Arthur slipped a hand inside his black jean-jacket and located one of many knives he kept on his person. Hand curling around the hilt of the knife, he waited.

 

 

What. The. Fuck.  
Alfred didn't now what he had been expecting. But he had definitely NOT been expecting this.  
The guy was around 6 ft 1”, 6 ft 2”. He was wearing a black jacket over a brilliant crimson wife beater that advertised “The Clash” in neon green caps. He wore black ripped skinny jeans, with a black belt that was studded with spikes. He had black combat boots almost completely covering his calves. He had small chains drooping over his jacket and jeans. Safety pins held together larger rips in his jacket, and his hair was messy and blond with green tips. He definitely looked like someone you didn't want to meet in a alleyway.  
As they grew closer, Alfred was able to pick out his facial features. He had blond, thin eyebrows that arched over radioactive emerald eyes. His rosy lips were fuller than those of most women, and his small, straight nose sported a small silver nose ring. He had piercings all though his ears, one draped in a chain along with multiple studs, rings, and a single small gauge. The other had an impressive dragon grasping the edge of his ear, with its tail going through the bottom. Multiple small studs laced this ear as well.  
His stance was relaxed, leaning back against the truck that Alfred assumed they had rented for the move, but his arms were crossed in a threatening manner. And the scowl on his face! Holy cow, this kid could probably make Ivan Braginsky run in terror. (Alfred realized that might have been a slight exaggeration, but it was close to the truth.)  
In short, this guy was a complete bad ass.  
Alfred disliked him instantly.  
One; the dude already looked like he hated their guts and he hadn't even talked to them yet! What kinda person's like that? Two; how could anyone scowl like that at his family? Sure, they were a kinda built, but you could take one look at Mattie and know he wouldn't hurt a fly, and his mom had to be the sweetest lady alive.  
Even so, Alfred grudgingly decided to give the guy a chance. If there was one thing his mom had drilled into his head, it was the saying, “Never judge a book by its cover.” That in mind, Alfred strode forward and stuck out his hand, calling up his famous smile. He was just about to introduce himself when-  
“Alfred F. Jones?”

 

 

Oh no. Ohhhhhh no. It couldn't be.  
But it was.  
There was no way he could deny to himself who the blond bespectacled boy with the brilliant blue eyes and the rimless glasses was. Even after seven years- and a major growth spurt, bloody hell the kid looked like he was on steroids- there was no doubt in his mind that this man was his childhood friend. Even if he had tried denying it, there was no way he could forget his mother and her unusual violet coloured eyes (he hadn't noticed her before- the boys must have been blocking her from his line of vision).  
The scowl dropped from Arthur's face without his permission. He stood gaping at his long time friend until he was right in front of him. He looked wary of Arthur. Never the less, he stuck out his hand to shake Arthur's. Arthur found he could no longer contain his shock and blurted out the other's name.  
“Alfred F. Jones?”  
The smile on the other's face dropped into a look that was part shock and part- for lack of a better expression- “creeped out”. Alfred looked like someone had just told him they'd been stalking him these past few months. Arthur suddenly had the strong urge to chuckle. Instead he only quirked up the edges of his lips. If he's anything like the Alfred I used to know, he probably thinks I have been stalking him. But he's seventeen now, right? He probably won't be anything like I'm used to.  
“Are you stalking me?”  
Arthur couldn't hide his smirk now. That'll probably just frighten the poor boy more. Arthur shook his head, wondering at this strange turn of events, before he replied.  
“No, I'm not bloody stalking you, git.”  
“Dude! That's so weird! Did you know the last people to live here were British too?” Alfred said excitedly. Arthur grinned a bit, remembering Alfred's strange obsession with his accent and amused at how easily the young American was distracted. He briefly pondered going along with the charade that he and Alfred had never met before, before remembering that he had already shown he knew his name. Which would be a bit hard to explain without telling the truth. Well then, truth it was.  
“Yes, I know Alfred. Those Brits never sold their house and, after seven bloody years, suddenly decided to up and move back.” Seeing Alfred's confused look, Arthur deadpanned. “Alfred, it's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”


	3. Chapter 3

Oh hell no.  
Alfred blinked in shock at the Brit before him. “A-Arthur?” When the dude smirked again, he knew it was true. Oh nononono no.  
How did he ever forget how bright his eyes were?  
Alfred roughly ran his hand through his hair, pausing to tug at the blond locks. The brief pain jolted him back to reality, ending that traitorous thought path. He had to be cool. Act normal. It was only Arthur, and it had been seven years. The dude had changed a lot, and besides, Alfred wasn't a child anymore. So it was all good, everything would work out fine, right?  
“Wow Artie, you really changed.” The Brit rolled his eyes.  
“Really? Thank you for noticing I am no longer ten.” Alfred blushed, but was unable to hold back a smile. Yep, that was Arthur.  
“Well, now that thats over and done, how are you Ms. Jones? You haven't aged a bit! And who's the young lad with you?” Alfred's mother beamed, then tugged Mattie forward from where he had been half hiding behind Alfred. As he stepped forward, he noticed his brother's face was as red as one of Antonio's tomatoes. Huh. Thats weird... Alfred thought. But, his brother had always been shy. Mentally shrugging, Alfred let the issue fly.  
He was jerked from his musings when his mother spoke.  
“Oh, Arthur, it's so good to see you again!And thank you! This is Alfred's twin brother Matthew! He lived with his father in Canada for a long time, but when he had a little issue.... Well Mathew came to live with us about five years ago. He's a little bit shy. Go on Mattie, say hi.”  
Matthew glanced up shyly at Arthur before quickly looking back down again.  
“H-Hello.” Arthur gave him a strange look. Suddenly, he stepped up to Matthew and tilted his chin up. Alfred frowned, noting with confusion the lack of space between the two.  
“Come now luv, though I'm sure the grass is very interesting, you deprive people of the chance to see your eyes. Besides, I don't bite.” Arthur smirked, and Matthew shyly raised his eyes. Alfred frowned a bit when Arthur smirk softened into a smile. “Beautiful.” Alfred froze for a moment. Did Arthur just-? No, Arthur's not gay. And neither is Mat. He's probably just trying to- get him out of his shell. Thats it.  
Alfred shifted nervously, then glanced at his mom to see her reaction. (Alfred had never been good at, as his friend Kiku puts it, “reading the mood” so he wanted to be sure.) His mother however was absorbed in a small box that lay at her feet.  
“What's this?” Arthur glanced aver at his mom, stepping away from Matthew- finally- and walking over to Ms. Jones.  
“Ah, those are just a few CDs of mine.” He offered Amanda a smile that didn't quite seem natural to Alfred, but his mom accepted it readily enough. Maybe he was just imagining things.  
“Is your mother home Arthur? I would love to catch up with her after all these years.” Arthur's smile immediately disappeared. Alfred narrowed his eyes. No, something was definitely going on here.  
“No ma'am, only my step-dad is home at the moment, but I believe he is sleeping. I'll be sure to tell her you said hi when she comes home, though.” Alfred's mom nodded.  
“Please do. And tell her that she should bring you all over for dinner sometime, it'll be lovely to catch up with Elanor, and I'm dying to meet her new husband. And I'm sure you and Alfred have a lot of catching up to do, right Alfie? Oh! I'm sorry, you're still not moved in yet, right? Do you need any help?” Arthur chuckled a bit, before saying, “No ma'am. I only have to move the rest of my things up to my room. Thank you though.” Amanda smiled.  
“You're welcome sweetie. Well, we better head off then. Bye Arthur!” Amanda rushed forward and gave the teen a tight hug, clearly surprising him. After a moment, he hugged back.  
“Good bye Ms. Jones. Good bye Alfred.” Arthur's eyes flicked over to Matthew. “Good bye Matthew.” His twin blushed again and Arthur smirked. Alfred glared at the latter. Soon, they were almost to the door of their house. Alfred turned back to look at Arthur one last time.  
The teen was picking up several large boxes and as he watched, carried them into his house, disappearing from view. Alfred turned back around and entered the house, closing the door behind him. Seeing Arthur again shouldn't mean anything, not after this long. It couldn't mean anything. Alfred swallowed nervously, quickly making his way up to his room. He didn't feel like being around anyone right now. Not with- well, whatever just happened still screwing with his head. Reaching his room, Alfred immediately threw himself face down upon his mattress, gripping his pillow with shaking hands.  
Alfred knew he wasn't g- well, he knew he was straight. Arthur Kirkland being here meant nothing. Alfred had not noticed how tight his jeans were. He had not noticed the way his shirt revealed the smallest patch of alabaster skin, just above his waist. He had certainly not noticed how green his eyes were.  
Alfred winced, panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. He violently told himself he had noticed none of these things. He thought of all the girls he had dated, all the girls who had come to his bed. He thought of magazines he kept under his bed, of girls with big boobs and long hair and smooth, long legs with thin waists. Inside his head, he ranted and screamed until he had managed to find the unstable platform in his mind that he had been on before Arthur had come back.  
He took a deep breath, and shakily laughed at himself. Of course he wasn't gay, especially not for an ass like Arthur Kirkland. Arthur... Arthur was weird. What kind of guy wore things like that? And scowled like that at people he hadn't met? Arthur was bad news, and bad news was exactly what Alfred did not need.  
Alfred resolved to stay away from Arthur Kirkland, no matter what he had to do.

 

Arthur had finally unpacked all the boxes. He mentally congratulated himself, though its not like he had the option of stringing it out. He was sure if he had even tried to take a break Reiner would've made things... unpleasant, for him.  
Arthur quickly got in the shower. He couldn't stay out as late as he normally did tonight, as it was in the middle of the school week, and tomorrow Arthur was going to be introduced to his new high school, the name of which presently escaped him.  
After showering, Arthur slipped on some new (non sweaty) clothes and did a quick Internet search to find out where the nearest pubs were, before gathering his guitar and sneaking out down the tree beside his window. Oh yes, he had missed this house.  
Once he was down on the ground, he shot a brief look over to the Jones residence. Alfred had definitely changed. There was something dark in his eyes sometimes, even when he was smiling. Amanda was as sweet a lady as ever. Arthur had entertained the thought of chasing her for a bit. She still looked young after all. But then she had introduced her other son.  
Arthur smirked at the memory. He was incredibly attractive, as the whole family seemed to be, with wavy blond hair and captivating violet eyes. Plus, he was obviously quite gay, and quite interested in Arthur. How could he resist playing with such ready prey?


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur decided to walk to school. Well, he technically hadn't decided. He paused for a moment, letting the memories from last night drift over him.  
He had managed to find several bars that were willing to take a chance on him. Which, Arthur knew, meant he would stay. The deal that they offered him was always the same- if Arthur played well and brought in more customers, he would be paid and the fact that he was underage would be conveniently overlooked. If he was terrible, he would be unceremoniously shoved out into the night.  
Arthur guessed that meant he wasn't terrible.  
Arthur had gone into his last stop for the night, a pub called Bloody Rose. The owner had been a bit impatient to hear him and, since he had nothing better to do, he had obliged.  
When he had finished, the owner had just dumbly shook his hand and bought him a drink. The man quickly wandered off to his office, murmuring something about British singers and Americans.  
After he left Arthur was immediately besieged by several young women.  
Long story short, he had woken up late to discover Alice or whatever her name was, lived delightfully close to his new school. He had dressed, grabbed his guitar, and started on his merry way, lighting a fag as he went.  
It wasn't long before his new school was in sight.  
It was a long, awkward looking building, shaped into what vaguely resembled a square. It was two storeys tall, with the large parking lot stretching to one side, while a bus route curved around the other. Arthur stomped up to what he presumed was the front door before entering the school.  
The door closed behind him with a quiet click. Arthur turned to find several high school girls behind a tall desk, staring at him with their mouths hanging open in blatant shock. Arthur allowed himself an amused smirk before sauntering over the to the desk, where he leaned over to close the prettiest one's mouth.  
“There now luv. Don't want to be catching flies, do we?” His smirk got bigger as a tidal wave of red crashed over her cheeks and she began to stutter rather pitifully. Arthur leaned back so that he was no longer lying over the desk, absently stretching as he watched the girl with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.  
Were all Americans this easy to seduce?  
Quickly growing tired of the girls' general lack of competence, he leaned forward once more. “My name is Arthur, Arthur Kirkland. I'm new here and I haven't yet gotten my class schedule. Who should I see about this?”   
“No one, I can get it for you.” Arthur turned around to face the girl who had appeared behind him. She had long brunette hair with captivating hazel eyes. She strode toward a back room of the office, tossing a greeting over her shoulder to the girls as she went. Arthur quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. It was a few moments before she came back.  
“Here you are. Your first class is right down the hallway. Welcome to Westview High, Arthur. My name is Elizabeta Hedervary, feel free to ask me any questions you might have.” She was quite pretty Arthur decided, and she had a fire he liked.  
“Where are you from Ms. Hedervary? You have a rather strange accent.” Elizabeta looked up at him from her current seat behind the desk. After giving him a once over, she gave him a teasing smile.  
“I meant about the school, but I used to live in Hungary. Let me guess, you're from England?” Arthur smirked.  
“What gave it away?” She laughed, then gave him another appraising look. After a moment, she gave a little “huh” then looked at the clock.  
“Oh jeez, you better get going. Your homeroom teacher is a stickler for being on time, and you're gonna have to haul ass if you wanna make it now.” Arthur just scoffed a bit, before strolling towards the door at a leisurely pace. Looking over his shoulder at the pretty Hungarian he smirked a bit.  
“See you around, Elizabeta.”  
“That a promise Kirkland?” Chuckling, he let the door close behind him.  
I think I'm going to like this school.

 

 

Alfred jostled his leg as he looked around his homeroom. Not many people were here yet, and Alfred was bored. He had a while before class started, but if he left now, he was almost certain he would be late. As he was talking himself out of going back out of the classroom, Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis walked in. Alfred breathed out a sigh of relief. Finally.  
Gilbert scanned the room, his eyes quickly finding Alfred, before striding over to one of his best friends.  
“Yo dude! Whats up?” Alfred said enthusiastically. Gilbert grinned back at him as he took the seat beside of him.  
“Not much. Just saw Eliza in the hallway, kesesese.” Alfred shook his head.  
“Dude, when are you gonna give up on her? I've known Liz for several years now and I'm telling ya man, she doesn't date.” Gilbert just scoffed.  
“Ze awesome me is too awesome to be refused!” Alfred rolled his eyes, turning his attention to the two men who had sat down with Gil.  
“Hey Tony! Sup bro?” The Spaniard grinned back at Alfred.  
“Hola me amigo, que pasa?”  
“Uhhh, you to man.” Alfred wondered what Antonio was chuckling about. Whatever it was, he decided he didn't want to know. He turned his attention to the final member of the so called Bad Touch Trio rather warily.  
“Hiya Francis.” Francis always made him feel kinda awkward. Though he claimed to be straight, he flirted with everyone, including guys, far too much for Alfred's liking. Gilbert and Antonio didn't seem bothered by it, and said he only did it because he was French. Alfred wasn't so sure.  
“Bonjour mon cheri. 'ow 'ave you been?” Alfred narrowed his eyes at the Frenchmen, who just batted his eyelashes innocently. Alfred had the sneaking suspicion he was insulting him, because every time Mattie heard Francis speak French he started laughing. Since he couldn't be sure, he was forced to let the issue go. Turning his attention back to the Frenchie's question, he suddenly remembered Arthur.  
“Dudes! I almost forgot! You know that old creepy house thats over by mine?” He paused as all three nodded. “Well the family that owns it moved back in!” Gilbert lifted a pure whit eyebrow.  
“Mein Gott, who would want to live in a place like that?” Alfred was about to respond with more details when Mr. Johnson slammed the door open, just as the bell rang. Alfred sighed, knowing that his story would have to wait until after class. He gave the Trio an apologetic look before turning to face the front of the class where Mr. J was busy writing today's assignment on the board.  
Alfred groaned. They had a chapter to read in their book today, which meant he wouldn't be able to talk to Gil and Toni. Grudgingly, Alfred opened his book to the required page, and began to read. The class settled into silence so heavy, you could probably hear a pin drop. Class was about five minutes in when it happened.  
The door to the classroom banged against the wall as it was thrown violently open. Every head in the class looked up in curiosity, looking for the source of this new disturbance.  
In walked Arthur Kirkland, with red ripped skinny jeans, a clingy black tank top with “The Sex Pistols” written in bright red, bleeding letters. He had on a leather jacket and his combat boots, and had what appeared to be a guitar case slung across his torso and hanging off his back.  
He gave the class a bored once over, working his jaw almost lazily. When he stuck out his tongue, stretching something that was in his mouth, Alfred realized he was chewing gum. Alfred looked around at the rest of the class, curious to see their reaction to Arthur- and NOT starting at the Brit. Examining his classmates, he began to frown. He did not like what he saw.  
Almost all of his classmates were staring at Arthur with open mouths. Most of the girls were blushing, and even a few guys were sending him appreciative glances. The rest of the guys either looked confused, scared, or... was that jealousy? Alfred looked back to Mr. Johnson to find him staring at Arthur incredulously. Arthur smacked his gum a bit more, before he rolled his eyes.  
“Is this Mr. Johnson's room?” Mr. J seemed to realize that he had to deal with this new kid. He cleared his throat and, after giving Arthur a once over, he frowned.  
“Yes this is, Mr...?”  
“Kirkland.” Mr. J seemed to gain stamina with each word, and anger slowly crept onto his features.  
“Yes. Well, Mr. Kirkland, I assume you are new here?” Arthur gave him an incredulous look.  
“No, I've been in your class all bloody year. Haven't you seen me?” Sarcasm dripped from his every word, and his expression clearly questioned the intelligence of their teacher. Several students laughed, but Alfred stayed silent. Mr. Johnson wasn't all that bad of a guy, he didn't deserve this kind of ribbing. Mr. J's face slowly turned red.  
“Well then Mr. Kirkland, since you are new, I guess you wouldn't know, but we have uniforms here. Also, you are not allowed to chew gum in class. You will see me after class to discuss acquiring you a Westview uniform. For now, please take a seat behind Francis.” Mr. Johnson spoke through clenched teeth. When he was finished speaking, Arthur stiffened.  
“This wouldn't happen to be a Frenchman by the name of Francis Bonnefoy, would it?” Alfred furrowed his brow and shot Francis a surprised look. Why did Arthur know Francis?  
Francis was paler than he had ever seen him. As Alfred watched, Francis stood up, causing quite a few heads to turn his way, including Arthur's.  
“A-Angleterre?” Francis asked shakily. Arthur stared at him for a moment before saying, “Well,  
fuck. 'ello Frog.”


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur scowled as he stomped his way over to his desk.  
Out of all the people he could have run into from England, he had to get stuck with Francis the sodding pervert. Arthur glared at his new desk mate as he took off his guitar and leaned it against the back of his chair, throwing himself down into the seat in the process. That idiot of a teacher hadn't even made him throw out his chewing gum. Arthur looked up at the board where their instructions for the rest of class were. Arthur flipped his book open to the correct page, and almost growled in frustration. He had done this chapter months ago back in England. Arthur sincerely hoped the rest of his classes weren't this behind.  
Immediately bored with this bloody waste of time, Arthur decided to observe his new school mates. Most had gone back to reading the assigned chapter, though some were still staring at him. He met the gaze of a group of girls towards the back, and watched with a sort of lazy amusement as they dissolved into giggles, some turning red at having been caught staring, while a few of the bolder ones stared back at him, eyes filled with either curiosity or lust. Arthur smirked and shot them a wink. When they dissolved into a fresh round of giggles he let out a snort that was having trouble deciding whether it was amused or disgusted. Americans.  
The teacher, Mr. Something or Another, gestured for the girls to quiet down, and Arthur allowed his attention to wander once more. He was in the desk behind Francis, almost at the back of the class. Honestly, after he had pissed the teacher off to such a degree, he was surprised he wasn't at the front of the room. Perhaps the man was hoping that an act of faith would inspire Arthur to act better. Perhaps he simply didn't wish to deal with the delinquent. More likely, he knew that Arthur was one of the one's whose behavior grew worse the more you tried to correct it.  
Arthur's eyes were drawn to the boy beside Frog. His white hair was slightly messy, and glinting with what Arthur assumed was gel. He wondered if the boy bleached his hair because he didn't like the color, but discarded the thought after a bit. If that were the case, he probably would've redyed it a color more suited to his taste. Well, maybe white was his taste. Arthur yawned, filing his thoughts away until he could ask the boy himself. He couldn't see his face right now; his nose was almost touching the book in front of him.  
Arthur allowed his eyes to roam further down. The boy was in uniform- a pristine white button up shirt with a dark green blazer. A green, black, and silver striped tie had been thrown over his shoulder in a comical fashion, and black slacks covered his long legs. Black tennis shoes disrupted the boy's smart appearance. Arthur noted with some interest that he looked to be quite tall, with broad shoulders that made him curious as to what his face looked like.  
Satisfied that he had seen all he could of the white haired boy -for the moment- his eyes drifted to the kid in front of White Hair.  
Arthur sighed. Of course he had to be in his homeroom. The Universe had already blessed him with Reiner; Alfred just added insult to injury. There was just something about him, something dark that was hidden behind that too-bright smile... Arthur realized he was staring at the blond, and quickly averted his eyes. He tried for a moment to see the brunette boy in front of Frog, before deciding that the Frenchman's head was simply too large for him to see around. Bloody Frog.  
Arthur yawned loudly, causing the teacher to shoot him a look of disgust and open disdain. Arthur barely resisted the urge to wink at him, pacifying his smart-ass instincts by stretching almost lazily. When Arthur looked up, Mr... Whatever, was clenching his pencil in a death grip. Not wanting to give away the fact that this was purposeful, he hid his grin. He slouched over his desk and started tapping out the beat of one of his band's songs with the tip of his boot. As he waited for this Hell to end, he allowed himself to entertain the fantasy of taking out his knives and throwing them at the white board in such a manner to make a gruesome smiley face. He smiled a bit when imagining the faces of his classmates. He wondered what Mr. Joe-whatever would do.  
He was jolted back to reality when a hand slammed against the edge of his desk, causing those nearest him to flinch. Arthur simply offered the raging man above him a bored look.  
“Mr. Kirkland.” The man was seething, rage pouring from his every pore. Arthur looked up at him seriously.  
“Please, there is no need to use such honourifics, though I am honoured. Call me Arthur.” Mr- what was his name? Fuck it, he would call him J. J's eyes were practically bulging out of his head. When he spoke, Arthur could tell he was struggling to keep a civil tongue.  
“Kirkland, I've had enough of you, and you haven't been in this school for twenty minutes. Not only do you dare to walk through our doors dressed like a- a delinquent, but you disrespect me, break school rules, disrupt class, and have the audacity to sit there with your book closed! Do you believe learning History is not worth your time, or are you simply attempting to spite me?”  
Arthur looked at the man over him, mentally comparing him to Renier. They had the same unkept blond hair and dead blue eyes. However, Renier would have been choking him by now, with one hand round his throat while the other- ….  
This teacher was simply pitching a child's tantrum, used to things going a certain way and confused and upset when they didn't. Arthur decided to stop dancing around the man.  
“I learned this chapter months ago, I arrived in America yesterday, and you have yet to earn my respect.” Arthur deadpanned. He raised a single blond eyebrow at J, who blinked at Arthur. Obviously, he wasn't expecting a straight response. Within a moment, though, he was out of his stunned stupor, and dead blue eyes were narrowed once more at Arthur's acid green ones. Though his nostrils were still flared and his jaw was still clenched, the red that had previously dominated his face had now subsided into a faint pink.  
“You should show respect to me, regardless. I am your teacher and am in charge of you in this class.”  
Arthur felt himself sinking as the teacher turned his back to him. The smallest twinge of anger sparked within him, and he rose from his chair, placing a hand on the man's shoulder and turning him around.  
“I will not. I will extend to you the same service you extend to me. I saw your eyes when I walked in; judgment boiling in their dead, murky depths. If you are going to disrespect and judge me before I open my mouth, then I will extend you the same courtesy.” Arthur's eyes were hard and cold as they looked down at the teacher. J's face clenched, and he opened his mouth to speak when Arthur leaned forward to whisper in his ear.  
“Don't think I don't know what you do. You are an alcoholic. You smoke. You look at an unhealthy amount of porn and hate your job. Now, luv, would it not be a shame if I told and showed how I knew all of this to your principle?” the small man in front of him froze, but Arthur didn't care. He had always hated those who claimed to be pure, those “nice” people who judged and ridiculed you for no reason other than that they could, while they sat back and lied to themselves, saying that they were nothing but good when in reality every single human being was worse than rotting corpses. Every one of them dirty, selfish, evil, worthless beings. Even him.  
His face dark from the thoughts running through his mind, Arthur leaned away from the man's ear to look again into those horrid eyes. After a moment, he sat down again at his desk, his eyes boring into the wall beside of him. The poor, fool of a teacher quickly scurried back to his desk.  
Arthur hated the ones that pretended they had any good in them. It was just lying to the world. Why not show them what you truly are, and have as much fun as you can while you're at it? At least then you don't hate yourself as much, because you have other filthy people to do that for you now. And if you stop deceiving everyone, the rules of being a “gentleman” no longer apply to you in society's eyes, because of course there is no hope for those already so corrupt. No hope for those stained beyond recognition. No hope for worthless little shits that have the audacity to be so open about what is inside of all of them.  
No hope for him.

 

 

Gilbert didn't know what the hell he should do.  
The new British kid had been sitting down for a while now, as had Mr. Johnson. Mr. J looked shaken and scared, and many of the students were looking between Blondie and Mr. J in confusion. He wondered if anyone else had heard what Kirkland had whispered to the man.  
Gilbert's eyes wandered back over to the Brit. He didn't look angry; his face was turned away from most everyone else, but Gilbert could tell his jaw was clenched. His face was all angles, everything about him looked ready to slice you to bits. And yet, Gilbert still didn't think he was angry. He seemed more... pained. Gilbert narrowed his eyes, shifting a bit so he could better see him. His thoughtful expression roamed the contours of his face, searching for a signal, a sign, something to give him a bit more. Why was he pained? Was he actually in pain? Perhaps Gilbert was imagining things. But then, why wasn't he angry? Or for that matter, smug? From how he had acted when he first came in, one would think that he would be glad to have something to blackmail the teacher with. And why had he told him that little bit of information now, when anyone could overhear? Why not just wait until after class when they were alone? In some corner of his mind, Gilbert knew that he shouldn't care this much, but something about the blond spawned within him a curiosity that would not let go. He let his eyes roam over the Briton once more, questions multiplying like rabbits every second that passed. Why did he dress like that? Was it just a fashion choice? Or something deeper? Who were the Sex Pistols? Why would he dye part of his hair? Did he not like being bl-  
Mein Gott. He must've been staring for too long, because he suddenly found himself face to face with the source of his thoughts and his eyes were boring straight into Gilbert and those eyes, God those eyes-  
His emerald eyes were shining, no, overflowing with pain, sadness, bitterness, depression, and above all hate. Hate of a dangerous kind, hate of the most terrifying kind. Those gorgeous emerald eyes were drowning in a destructive self loathing that made Gilbert want to grab him and shake him, to slap sense into him, to hug him, to cry. It chilled Gilbert to the bone, the contents of those eyes.  
He felt his questions evolve from simple curiosity, innocent and fleeting, into a burning desire to know, to understand who what when where and why his eyes spewed a lava that burned only him.  
He stared deeper into the others eyes, trying desperately to untangle the seething mass of emotions there, when he saw the Brit's eyes grow wider in realization. And then it was gone. All that pain, sorrow, hate, all of it disappeared, leaving those enchanting twin orbs empty, cold expanses of green. Gilbert stared into his eyes, not bothered that he had been caught staring. His brow furrowed, his lips turned downward. No one should be able to so quickly and efficiently wipe that much emotion from their face.  
Gilbert knew then that there was nothing that anyone could say or do that would keep him from figuring out everything about the Brit. So help him, he would not stop until he knew all of his deepest and darkest secrets.

 

 

Shit. He had seen him. No, not his body, don't be daft. The red eyed boy had seen his emotions, the thoughts in his head. He had been careless, staring at the wall and allowing himself to seethe, not bothering for once to close off every single hateful thought welling up within him. He had been so absorbed in himself that he hadn't noticed for a while that someone was staring at him intensely, and when he did, he immediately looked over, daring the person to interrupt him, not expecting to meeting burning crimson eyes that stared at him with fascinated horror, horror gradually dwindling into the background as determination replaced it and those crimson eyes started dissecting him, burrowing through all of his walls and reaching for his soul...  
When Arthur recovered enough to realize what was happening, he immediately sucked everything back inside, down into some dark place within him that could never be reached. He stared back at the white haired boy, with no emotion in his eyes, trying to show him that this was a man already dead, a corpse pretending life. He hid his horror when he saw those crimson eyes burst with emotion, his eyes narrowing and his lips setting into a grim line. He realized that this boy wasn't going to be so easily fooled. Arthur made himself calmly look away as his heart picked up speed and he mentally screamed.  
He was supposed to have learned his lesson about showing emotion long ago. He knew that doing so would only bring him pain. And in this one moment of weakness, he had managed to get himself into something else.  
He should know, after seven years, how to conceal what he felt. Perhaps it was better if he just- the obnoxious ring of the school bell jarred him from his musings. He sat at his desk as all of the other students filed out of the door. He let out a sigh of relief when the white haired boy exited with Alfred and someone else, pausing a moment when he noticed Francis lingering outside of the door. Arthur shook his head and picked up his guitar, before continuing over to the teacher's desk. He would deal with Frenchie later.  
He gave J a once over as he grew closer to the desk. The man looked as if he'd been shot. His face was white and his lips were pulled into a thin line. Reaching the desk, Arthur crossed on his arms and stared down at his teacher. Neither said anything for a moment.  
“... I already have a uniform.”  
“How the hell did you know all that?” And there it was. Arthur had known it would pop up; to be honest he was slightly disappointed it only took this long. He absently ran a hand through his already messy hair.  
“I just looked. You had your phone out under your desk when I walked in, and the, ahem, noticeable physical signs were a fair indicator to the contents of the phone. And if you're doing it in class, at the beginning of the day you definitely have an addiction. Plus, you didn't even go off on me about practically screaming 'fuck', instead just telling me to sit down. You obviously wanted to go back to what you were doing. As for the smoking, you forgot to put in a mint or something after your morning fag; really, luv, your breath reeks.” As he went on, J started breathing harder. Arthur watched him clench his hands, obviously trying to keep his head.  
“...And what about the drinking?” Arthur threw back his head and laughed. It was empty and hollow, but he couldn't help it. Arthur smirked at the bemused man before him.  
“I just happened to see you out drinking last night. You downed quite a few pints, I was almost impressed.” Arthur yawned.  
“Well, I must be off. New school and all that. Cheerio, mate.”

 

 

Arthur rubbed his eyes as he exited the class room. He had barely gotten any sleep last night, and it was starting to catch up with him. He still had his eyes closed when he ran into someone.  
“What the fuck do you think you're-” Oh. He'd forgotten about Francis.  
Said Frenchman was currently frowning at Arthur with an expression Arthur didn't bother to decipher. Instead he brilliantly said-  
“What the bloody fuck died on your face.” Francis gave an indignant little sniff.  
“It is a beard.”  
“That is not a beard.”  
“Yes it is.”  
“Well, its a shit beard then. Wait until you can grow proper facial hair, yeah?”  
“I'll have you know that women like my beard.”  
“Just women?”  
Arthur had been playfully smirking at Francis up 'til now, happy to have fallen so quickly into this familiar routine. But as soon as he had said this last comment, Francis's face had gone deathly pale. Arthur frowned, suddenly regretting not paying closure attention to his friend earlier. How had he missed the tension in his shoulders? The way his eyes flickered about like those of a cornered animal? The way he looked ready to bolt? Arthur was supposed to be good at this, dammit. And he had looked like this far to many times himself for him to have missed it on anyone else. No, something he had said must have triggered it.  
Arthur narrowed his eyes, deciding it would be quicker just to ask Francis himself. “What's wrong?” he kept his voice low and serious. Francis's eyes flickered around briefly, before landing back on him.  
“Not here, not now. We will talk later, we must get to class. I stayed back to warn you, mon cher, do not bring up your more dubious preferences, oui? At least, not until we can speak.” Arthur was about to speak when Francis cut him off.  
“Please, lapin. This is important. Just until the end of the day; I swear I will explain all then.”  
“... You're not the type to cover up Francis.” Francis winced, before looking at Arthur again, his blue eyes pleading. Arthur could feel his will crumbling. Damn that frog for worming his way into Arthur's heart.  
“Alright.” Francis breathed a sigh of relief, before enveloping him in a quick hug. Before Arthur could react, Francis was down the hall waving and calling back to him.  
“I'm happy you are here, mon lapin! I shall see you later!” Francis rounded the corner and was gone, leaving Arthur to think- What the fuck just happened?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> long one. and it starts getting angsty.

Arthur walked to his next period, English Lit 1, pondering what had just occurred. Why the hell was Francis so nervous? Was he in trouble again? Knowing Francis, probably. Maybe he had slept with the principal's son or something.  
Arthur shook his head, giving up on figuring out what was wrong with his friend. He would find out soon enough. Until then he just had to trust that Francis had his best interests at heart.  
Arthur scanned the hallway, looking for his next class. Spotting the correct door, he strode forward, placing a bored look on his face as he threw open the door. The class went silent, staring at Arthur as if he had fallen from the sky. Arthur rolled his eyes. Bloody hell, is this whole school full of incompetent arses?  
“ Is this Ms. Campbell's room?” the teacher blinked up at him, nodding a bit. Arthur inwardly pleaded for this to not be a repeat of last class. When the teacher gave him no further instruction, still staring at him in some state of shock, (really, a few tattoos and piercings does not a murderer make. These people need to get the sticks out of their arses) he gave the class a once over, deciding how to play this. He almost chuckled at what he saw.  
These people might be silent right now, but it was clear from the state of the room that most of the time they were not. It looked as if a tornado had gone through it. And from the looks of the kids around him, he wouldn't be surprised to find out that the room had been in perfect order the period before.  
In the front of the room sat the strangest group Arthur had ever seen. There was a blond with spiked hair, who was desperately clinging to another blond, who had slammed his forehead against the desk. Behind these two was a rather large bespectacled lad who was glaring down at the one with spiked hair. He had one arm extended behind him, curled protectively around a small boy who looked at the larger with terrified eyes, occasionally sending pleading glances to the boy with silverish hair who sat beside of the bloke with his head on the desk. This boy was stroking a stuffed- was that a puffin? and looking with apparent boredom at a boy with a strange hat on his head. This boy was grinning at the sight before him, exposing one overly long incisor. To his right sat a tall bloke with violet eyes trying desperately to get away from a slender girl who was murmuring what sounded like “marry me” repeatedly under her breath. Behind them was an Asian boy, who had a camera pointed at the aforementioned blonds, one still clinging to the other. Beside of the boy with the camera was another Asian with a blank look on his face, absently sketching what looked like fireworks on his paper. The rest of the class sat as far away from the others as possible, and stared at Arthur with a look of dread, clearly wondering what fresh hell he would mix into the chaos before him.  
Arthur looked back at the teacher, now understanding why she was staring at him as though he had just announced his intention to brutally murder her in a slow and innovative fashion. Against his will, pity began to stir within his breast. She looked to be a somewhat decent woman, and he hoped to actually learn something in this class. He'd never admit it, but he loved classic literature.  
And so it was that Arthur found himself stepping forward and, with exaggerated care, giving her a small bow as he brought her hand to his lips.  
“Hello, ma'am. I am Arthur Kirkland. I have just transferred here from England. Would you be so kind as to direct me to my seat?” Arthur dropped his cockney accent, sounding like a stereotypical British gentleman. He wanted to throw up from his act, but the smile that slowly crept upon the face of the woman before him made up for it. It bespoke of her relief, her gratitude, and her happiness. Arthur straightened his back, allowing a faux smile to curve his lips as she nodded. The class was still silent as she directed him to sit on the other side of the boy with the camera, who he later learned was named Kiku.  
The rest of class followed in a relatively calm manner, as its occupants had grown too distracted by the Englishman to stir up any more trouble. Just who was this boy who looked as if he had escaped from prison, but acted as if he were a prince? Arthur let out a humourless chuckle at the looks he was receiving, picking up the extra book he had been given and beginning to reread A Midsummer Night's Dream. He glanced up at the teacher, who was staring at her students with shock and relief. Arthur felt a small smile begin to tug at his lips, before it died.  
Why had he done that? Acting was all fine and dandy, but for these reasons? He should know better than to give the poor woman hope. He was a delinquent incapable of anything remotely resembling “proper”. He could act, but his true personality would make itself known all too soon. It would've been kinder if he had flipped the class off and made some sort of scene. Now he had to deal with her disappointed face the next time he snapped.  
Arthur passed the period staring blankly at the page and wondering why he thought himself capable of kindness, even for one, fleeting moment.

 

 

 

Alfred sat between Gilbert and Antonio, absently working through the problems that their Trigonometry teacher had assigned them. His mind replayed the events in first period like a broken record.  
Arthur had insulted the teacher. Arthur had known Mr. J's personal information that he should not have been able to find out so quickly. Arthur knew Francis. Francis had waited for Arthur as he spoke to the teacher. Arthur sounded almost evil when he spoke. Arthur's tone of voice was cold and hard. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.  
Alfred was beginning to hate Arthur.  
Why wouldn't the Brit stay out of his head? Nothing had ever done this to him before. It was killing Alfred, knowing that Arthur was dominating his mind for absolutely no reason. Emotions whirled within him, shock, concern, fear. He was shocked at his old friend's behavior; he was concerned for his well being, wondering what could have made him become this way. He refused to even acknowledge his fear.  
And then there was Francis. The way they had interacted, it was almost as if- no. Arthur couldn't be gay. Alfred needed him to not be gay.  
Because if Arthur was gay, where the hell did that leave Alfred?  
Alfred clenched his pencil tighter in misery. He had gotten past this. He knew he wasn't gay. It was wrong, it was abhorrent, and Alfred was the Golden Boy, the Hero. He was crown jewel of the Football team, top of most of his classes, and the perfect model of a man. Gays were wrong, strange mistakes of nature that needed to be eradicated.  
Alfred continued to tell himself this, as he had for the past seven years. He built up his walls, he reaffirmed his opinions and beliefs. And gradually he came to realize that he was worrying over nothing. Arthur could be gay- and if he was Alfred would make sure to end him. After all, gay was different. And different was not tolerated.  
So what if he's gay? Just means I'll get a new punching bag. After all, somebody's gotta teach the pansies a lesson.

 

 

 

Gilbert stretched, looking for all the world like a narcissistic cat. And Gilbert was pretty sure he wasn't a cat.  
He grinned at Toni and Al, waving goodbye as he put his Trig book back in his locker. He had easily finished all the assigned work in class, so he didn't need to bring the book home. He glanced back at the disappearing figures of Toni and Alfred. They had English Lit 1 for third period. Gilbert had Chemistry. He knew barely anyone in the class, which normally wouldn't have bothered him, as he was the type to get along with almost anyone, but the Chem teacher seemed to have it out for him. She had placed Gilbert in the back of the classroom, in a corner so removed from everyone else that it was impossible to make conversation. Even when they went to the lab, she made sure he was in the very back table, alone.  
To be frank, it sucked. Gilbert sighed, closing his locker door and making his way to the Chemistry room, only to see the sign telling them that they would be working in the lab today. Gilbert cursed, quickly turning around and setting off towards the lab, barely making it into the room before the bell rang. The teacher gave him a soul chilling glare, but Gilbert just glared right back. She couldn't write him a tardy and they both knew it. She narrowed her eyes at him before turning towards the board. Gilbert grinned at his victory, before making his way too the back of the class and throwing his things down. Gilbert sighed as he waited for the teacher to finish writing her instructions up on the board. He glanced longingly at the empty chair beside of him, wishing for absolutely anyone to help him pass the time. He began tapping out a beat against the table with his pencil. Quickly losing interest, he decided to write down the events of today in his journal, starting a bit when he remembered the new British student.  
He knelt down, retrieving an old leather bound book from him backpack. He then traded in his pencil for a pen, and began to record what he had seen so far today, stopping only when he heard a rather loud bang. He glanced up, curious as to what had caused the racket, only to be distracted by the now-finished instructions on the board. He quickly replaced his journal with his Chemistry book, turning to the assigned page to read the directions to the experiment.

 

 

 

Arthur was pissed (no, not drunk, though he was starting to wish he was). He had finally made his way to a class before the bell rang. Maybe he could just slip in unnoticed... his hope died as he grew closer to the door, seeing the sign that had been carelessly taped to its front. He finished reading that his class today would be in the lab just as the bell rang. Arthur banged his head against the door in frustration. His schedule didn't tell him where the lab was, as that was not where class was normally held. And he was late. Again.  
He sat there for awhile, with his head against the door, until someone behind him cleared their throat. He whirled around to find the spiky haired bloke from his previous class.  
“What are you doing here?”  
“I might ask you the same question.” they stared at one another for a bit before the other boy broke out in a smile.  
“I'm skipping. Now, answer my question.” Arthur looked at the other boy with newfound respect.  
“I'm trying to convince myself not to skip.” The other boy laughed uproariously, looking at Arthur again as his laughter subsided.  
“And here I thought you were some goody two-shoes. I'm Mattias Kohler.” The boy, Mattias, put out his hand. Arthur reached out and took it. Matias's grip was firm, confident and sure. Arthur's respect for the lad went up.  
“Arthur Kirkland.”  
“I know,” the boy responded, offering Arthur a cheeky grin. Arthur quirked an eyebrow, a small smirk making its way onto his face. Shaking his head, Arthur went on.  
“Can you tell me where the Chemistry lab is? Some bloody idiot forgot to write the room number on the sign.” Arthur gestured towards the sign, which simply read, “GO TO LAB”. Mattias snorted.  
“Sure, I'll show you where it is. You sure you don't wanna skip?” Arthur grimaced.  
“Believe me, I'd love nothing more, but I can't... at least, not on my first day of school.” The school would likely call his home if he exhibited such behaviour so early, and Renier would answer, but he didn't tell Mattias that. His fear of his step father wasn't exactly something he wanted getting around.  
“Suit yourself,” Mattias responded. “C'mon. I'll walk you there.” Mattias motioned with his hand before setting off down the corridor, glancing over as Arthur fell in step with him.  
“So, Kirkland, what's in the bag?” Mattias quirked an eyebrow at Arthur.  
“Guitar.” Is it really not that obvious? Mattias's eyebrow rose higher.  
“Why'd you bring it to school?” Arthur shot a look at Mattias, judging. The boy looked as if he was ready for a fight, with his uniform loose and blond hair spiked. There was a devil-may-care attitude that hung in the air around him. One could not help but breathe it in, and ease up a bit in his presence (in the back of his mind Arthur remembered the blond boy with the glasses that had been going after Mattias this morning. Okay, so maybe he didn't relax everyone...).  
With a shrug, Arthur faced the front again, following Mattias as he rounded a bend.  
“Went out and played at a few bars last night, got drunk, found a pretty Uni lass and went home with her.” Mattias was suddenly stopped, causing Arthur to shoot him a worried look. Had he been wrong in trusting the lad?  
Said lad was staring at him, mouth agape. They stood there for a bit, in silence. Arthur began to tap his foot impatiently.  
“...You're serious.”  
“Yep.” Arthur, mildly bored, added a little pop at the end of the word, stretching it into two syllables instead of one. Mattias stared at him a bit more, then burst into loud laughter. It was warm friendly laughter, the kind that you couldn't help but join.  
Arthur merely stared. What the hell? Mattias gave him a hearty slap on the back.  
“You Beast! First day in America, and not only has half the school already heard about you, but you've been to not one, not two, but several bars, got drunk, and went home with an older woman.” Mattias shook his head in bewilderment.  
“You sir, are my new hero.” Arthur chuckled darkly, but Mattias didn't seem to notice. He had started walking again, this time going a bit faster. The less time you spend in the hall, the less likely you are to be sent back to class, after all. Arthur quickly set off, lengthening his strides until he had caught up to Mattias. Mattias suddenly turned to a door Arthur hadn't previously noticed.  
Gesturing towards it, Mattias said, “Here's the lab. I gotta run, Norge'll kick my ass if he finds out I didn't actually get those creepy candles he wanted...” Mattias shuddered, before giving Arthur a two finger salute.  
“Later, Beast. Oh, and good luck with Ms. Knockburns!” With that Mattias left, leaving Arthur scowling at his newest nickname. Really, he couldn't stand the things. He had a perfectly good name, given to him by his wonderful parents. He didn't see why people seemed so bloody obsessed with calling him anything but 'Arthur'.  
Still grumbling, Arthur threw open the door, which hit the wall with a resounding bang! Arthur briefly wondered if he was developing a habit, before deciding he didn't care. Which he immediately regretted deciding- as it wouldn't do for him to come in at four in the morning and wake up the whole bloody house- so he un-decided it. He then felt immensely guilty for butchering his native language so, until he remembered that Shakespeare would often make up his own words in his plays. So why couldn't he?  
As he was pondering these deeply philosophical thoughts, the entire Chem class was staring at him. Arthur supposed he was quite used to this by now- these bloody Yanks had no manners.  
Arthur inwardly smiled at his own hypocrisy, before realizing that the only actual American he had spoken with so far (besides the teachers) was Alfred. This wasn't an international school, so why were they all there? Maybe all the American kids were shy. That would explain why he hadn't talked to any...  
Arthur smirked, recalling the girls from this morning. Or perhaps they're all too busy mentally undressing me to actually talk to me.  
Arthur glanced back over the frozen class. This silence had long ago spilled over into the realm of 'awkward' and Arthur was wondering how long this would go on if he didn't say a thing. After a few more seconds, Arthur sighed, deciding that he would have to break this silence. After all, it was dangerous to leave Arthur alone with his thoughts.  
Arthur moved towards the front desk, casting an appraising eye over the teacher. She quirked an eyebrow at him, not backing down. Arthur gave a small nod of approval, before sticking out his hand.  
“Arthur Kirkland.” The woman took his hand, shaking it briefly before letting go.  
“Your worst nightmare.” I really doubt that. Arthur smiled at her, a clear challenge. She smirked back at him, before turning to survey the lab. After a moment, she winced.  
“I apologize, Mr. Kirkland. All my other tables are full; your lab partner will be Gilbert Beilschmidt.” Curious, Arthur moved his eyes to where hers had previously rested, and almost winced at what he saw.  
He had to sit next to White Hair Boy who, he now knew, was Gilbert.  
He definitely should have skipped.

 

 

 

Gilbert had zoned out at the chemistry page before him, only snapping out of it when he heard his name. He glanced up, wondering who had called him, only to find Arthur Kirkland steadily making his way to the back table. Gilbert's heart stopped for a minute, his mind going blank with shock. After months of in-class-exile, Gilbert was finally going to get a Chemistry mate. And it was going to be Arthur Kirkland.  
Nothing about Gilbert knew how to feel about that, much less how to react. Which was how he found himself wordlessly moving his things over and pushing out one of the two lab stools, all the while staring at Arthur's face. Something in the back of his mind began coughing up dust, and barely managed to wheeze out that Gilbert might possibly be acting creepy. This small dying something was promptly washed away on the tsunami response of 'I'm way too awesome to be creepy'.  
So Gilbert continued to stare at Arthur, who, after sitting down, continued to stare at the wall, not having met Gilbert's gaze throughout this entire ordeal. Which annoyed Gilbert. He was too awesome to be ignored. So instead of tapping Arthur on the shoulder like any rational person, Gilbert put a finger on the other side of Arthur's face and turned it towards him, finally letting crimson eyes meet startled green.  
“W-What the hell are you doing, git?” Okay, so maybe Gilbert was being a tiny bit creepy.  
Gilbert quickly dropped his hand, instead moving it to the back of his neck and offering Arthur a sheepish smile.  
“Sorry, but ve von't get anything done if you can't look me in the eyes.” Gilbert offered Arthur a small apologetic smile. Arthur quickly glanced away muttering that of course they could get things done that way. Gilbert only chuckled.  
Glancing up at the clock, Gilbert pulled his book back to the center of the table with a sigh.  
“ I really hope you're good at chemistry.” Arthur's shoulders fell a bit, before he turned back to Gilbert, that lips quirked in what didn't quite count as a smile, but something more... predatory.  
“Why, chemistry not your forte?” Gilbert gave a snort of indignation. He could be good at chemistry! It was just that...  
“Nien, I'm too awesome for this Scheiße.” Arthur blinked twice.  
“Is there some kind of extreme foriegn exchange program going on at this school? I mean what the bloody hell, I've been here one day and met a Hungarian, a Frenchman, and a German.”  
“I'm Prussian! And I thought you already knew Francis?” Gilbert looked at Arthur curiously, deciding that the chemistry experiment could wait. Arthur merely snorted.  
“Prussia no longer exists. Well, except for that one spot in Canada... and just because I already knew Francis doesn't make this place any less of an international melting pot. Then there was another bloke, Mattias, who spoke with a strange accent. German?” Gilbert frowned; Prussia DID exist! It was too awesome to be dissolved!  
“Nien, Mattias is from Denmark. And Prussia does exist! Any land owned by people with Prussian blood is automatically Prussia! Which makes me Prussian, not German! Mein bruder and Vater are just too unawesome to be Prussian.” Gilbert gave a short (and very manly) huff, poking out his lips in a pout for a few moments before glancing over at Arthur. The poor Brit had an almost pained look on his face. Gilbert sighed. Some people would never understand the awesomeness of Prussia.  
Arthur stared at Gilbert for a few moments, as if he was searching for something. Gilbert raised his eyebrows, resisiting the fleeting urge to wriggle them suggestively. After all, this was only Arthur's first day here, he didn't know how things were; what if he thought Gilbert was actually comiing on to him? Gilbert gave a small shudder, banishing the thought. He shot a quick look over to Arthur, and was relieved to find him facing away again. His pale cheeks grew slightly pink as he began to-finally- work on the experiment, measuring out the proper amounts of their various ingredients. Seeing what Gilbert intended, Arthur set about transfering the ingredients to their proper containers; some mixing, some sitting, some into the centrefuge.  
They worked in silence. As more time passed, Gilbert began to shift uncomfortably. The silence didn't bother him; he just hated not knowing what others were thinking. Gilbert scowled to himself. He hated not knowing what Arthur was thinking. Here was the perfect excuse for conversation, and he was waving at it as it passed by! Gilbert's scowl deepened. He wanted to talk, but what the hell was he supposed to say? “ Excuse me, but I happened to notice that you act extremely strange and seem rather depressed. Would you mind telling me about that? Oh, and how do you like this school so far?” Gilbert winced just thtinking about it. Maybe he should ask him about The Sex Pistols? But what if Arthur got insulted because he didn't know what they were? What if he never talked to him again? Nien... Gilbert was too awesome for that... right?  
Gilbert cursed as he realized he didn't remember how many scoops of salt he had measured out. He tiredly poured the whole cup back into the container and began the tedious task of remeasuring it all. Gott, at this rate he would never get anything done, not the experiment, not the class, not even talking to Arthur. As Gilbert mentally cursed himself, Arthur was shooting him bemused glances. He wasn't concerned, per say, he was just... well, bemused. He wondered what was going on in White Hair's head to make him scowl so.... Arthur berated himself. He was NOT thinking of helping out again. Why should he? Not like this bloke would ever bother with him.  
The look Gilbert had given him at the beginning of the day flashed once more before his eyes. Uncomfortable with this line of thinking, Arthur decided to distract himself. By speaking to Gilbert.  
“So, why the white hair? I can understand not thinking your face is brill, I mean, I used to have the most bloody awful eyebrows, but why pure white?” Gilbert looked up, startled. He had been so focused on trying to talk to Arthur. He didn't think Arthur would try to talk to him.  
Gilbert chuckled. “Nien, this is my natural hair color, eye color too. I'm albino.” Arthur shot him an unconvinced look.  
“I thought albinism was a genetic disorder causing one's body to have an extremely low melanin count.” Gilbert nodded.  
“Ja.”  
“Then shouldn't your eyes be as pale as the rest of you? Like, a colorless blue, or light pink...? Not crimson.” Gilbert just shrugged.  
“Ja, probably, but I don't question it. Just like I don't question how I rarely get sunburned, even if I'm this pale.” Arthur let out an amused snort, jerking his hand up as he nearly put too much iodine in his solution.  
“You had bad eyebrows?” Arthur winced.  
“Yes. Like two great bunny tails got stuck to my forehead.” Gilbert looked up at Athur in a sort of horrid fascination.  
“How the Hölle did you manage to grow out of those?” Arthur sighed.  
“I didn't. Hand me the NaCl, will you?” It was a clear avoidance of the question, but Gilbert let it slide. Handing Arthur the salt, Gilbert decided to try to learn more about Arthur.  
“So, Arthur, you're from England?” Gilbert blinked. Did Arthur just tense?  
“Ja.” Gilbert shot Arthur a look, and Arthur smiled devilishly back. Gilbert struggled to keep his face stern for a moment, before letting his expression melt into an easy smile.  
“So why did you move to back to America?” There it was again. The fleeting tension. Gilbert frowned, and was about to inquire when Arthur looked back at him.  
“Oi, how'd you know I'd lived here before? You haven't been stalking me, have you?” he teased.  
Gilbert put on a smile, when inside his mind was racing.   
“Verdammit, I've been discovered,” Gilbert replied, easily slipping into the banter. Arthur's lips twitched up into a brief smile as he removed one of the various small projects they had started, pencil detailing the results in an elegant cursive.  
“Oh? What's my mum's name? How many siblings do I have? What's my favorite drink?” Gilbert paused for a moment before answering.  
“Mutter; Maria. Siblings; one bruder. Favorite drink; bier.” The look that Arthur gave him was priceless. As soon as Gilbert saw his face he doubled over laughing.  
“Kesesesese! Oh, Gott, your face! Did you think- did I actually get something right?” Gilbert fell down onto his lab stool, legs no longer able to support the weight of his mirth.  
Arthur didn't miss a beat. “I was simply wondering who could possibly think it was a good idea to reply to that. And I suppose you were close. My mum's name is Elanor, not Maria, and I have four brothers. And my favorite drink is rum, though beer isn't bad,” Arthur replied calmly, now cleaning the materials they had used. He shot a quick look at the clock. They had finished right on time.  
Gilbert gave Arthur an aproving look. “I answered back because I'M AWESOME. And I told you about me, I didn't just say some random Scheiße. You drink?” Arthur snorted.  
“Of course not! Can't you tell that I'm a perfect little angel?” Arthur winked at him just as the bell rang. Picking up his- was that a guitar case?- Arthur began striding towards the door. He called out a brief, “See you round,” before heading out the door, leaving Gilbert blinking in the Chem Lab.

 

 

Arthur strode down the hall confidently, hands stuck carelessly in his pockets and swagger in his step. He allowed his eyes slowly roam over the walls, meandering about until they spotted the sign for the boys' lavatory. He mildly readjusted his steps, casually strolling towards the closed door and quietly slipping inside. He looked round for a moment, checking that he really was alone, before he slowly reached out to the silver hand lock, turning it with a grinding click. His eyelids fluttered shut, and he leaned his forehead foreward so that it rest against the door. His breathing began to quicken, his heart sped up, his chest grew tighter and tigher, each new gasp of breath bringing with it a searing pain. Arthur flipped around so that his back lie against the door instead, sliding down it's smooth wood to rest on the bathroom's tiled floor.  
He was a fool.  
It was harmless. Innocent. Nothing. And yet every word, every hint, everything that came even remotely close to asking about his personal life felt like Gilbert had been slowly peeling back the skin of his face, mapping out the contours of what lie beneath with jagged nails. They ripped into his flesh unintentionally, a curious caress that had unseen consequences. Because as his skin was ripped off, as those sharp nails tore into his flesh, as his gashes wept tears of blood, Arthur smiled a pleasent smile, he laughed a pleasent laught, he spoke of nonconsequencial things. He let no one see his life-blood pooling around his feet.  
His breath quickened again, and he pulled his legs to his chest, burying his face in his knees as he wrapped his arms around himself. He felt exposed, as if he was lying spread eagle in the middle of a battlefield. He felt the hypothetical weapons train on him, and he waited for the traitorous bullets to pierce his skin, to rip him up so violently that he had no recognizable features left. Maybe these would be the bullets that finally ended him. Hopefully they would end him.  
But Arthur knew that he couldn't do it. He couldn't just lie back and die, no, he had things he had to live for, responsibilities. Well, one responsibility. But that didn't matter. That one thing was enough to keep him here, enough to make him endure his hellish life. It gave him a dispicable sort of strength, a strength not borne of love, or hate, or anything his reason had to offer. It was a strength borne of Arthur's own loyalty, loyalty to a memory, really. Because his reason? All it did was sit there. It didn't comfort him, it didn't rescue him, it didn't show him any emotion. It just existed, but that was enough to keep Arthur going.  
Arthur pressed his eyes against his knees, as if the pressure alone might stop him from seeing the truth. Because the truth, the truth was awful.  
The truth was that sometimes Arthur hated this reason, sometimes he wished it away, sometimes he wished it would cease to exist. And sometimes, some agonizing times, he knew that it wasn't just sometimes. Sometimes- like now- he knew that he hated his reason constantly, that he wished it away every time he encountered it. He managed to bury that hate deep within his subconcious, so deep that it rarely ever made an appearance. But when it did resurface, when he did acknowledge its existence, his own flame of self hatred grew into an agonizing bonfire that threatened to consume him. It licked and bit at his heart, it burned his soul, until it was all he could do not to go mad. He would do anything to distract himself, to bury it again. He threw himself blindly into fights, he agitated Reiner, anything, anything, to obliterate these thoughts. Who cares if his nose was broken again? If glass shards ripped more scars into his skin? If he was given another concusion? Pain made it hard, no, almost impossible to think about anything else. Arthur opened his eyes, staring at the wall before him in realization.  
Pain made these thoughts go away.  
His eyes were drawn down to his boots, where he kept his sharper knives. He calmly reached into his boot, pulling out the weapon concealed there. He stared at his reflection in the blade as he stood, making his way over to a sink. It had been a while since he had done this; usually he had some one more than willing to harm him hovering about. Arthur ran his thumb over the blade, not flinching when a line of crimson appeared. It barely stung, he was so used to the pain. He would have to go pretty deep if he wanted these thoughts gone.  
Arthur took a deep breath. He might have seemed calm, but the thoughts swirling inside of his head still screamed at him, yelling that he was a worthless little bitch, that he diserved everything he got, that there was nothing but this, nothing but the pain.  
Arthur wasn't a masochist. He hated the pain, hated its sting, its burn, its cut. He hated the relief it brought. Because Arthur Kirkland was far more fucked up than anyone could possible know. He was so broken that he was reduced to self-harm to keep his sanity. His abuse went far beyond the physical, far beyond Reiner, beyond his brothers, his mother, strangers on streets, in bars, at school. The majority of his abuse came from himself, and he knew it, and he hated himself for it. Arthur raised the knife. He didn't want to know, he didn't want to accept these truths, he didn't want to carry these things around with him constantly. And so he brought the knife down, down, until a large gash had appeared on his left wrist and a crimson river poured from slash. Arthur gritted his teeth, feeling tears gather in his eyes. It wasn't as deep as he wanted, he still knew, still remembered, still had those sickening thoughts pounding against his brain.  
As he prepared to slash his wrist agian, he didn't notice the creak of a door opening. He didn't notice the large frame silhoutted in the doorway, staring at him in shock. He didn't notice the figure move towards him as he prepared to cut himself once more. He did notice the hand that grabbed his descending arm, stopping the knife from reaching his flesh. He did notice the shocked blue eyes staring at him from behind rimless glasses. He did notice a very American accent asking him something, though he had no idea what. All he could feel was an awful pain ripping through his chest. Shame, hate, and depression coursed through his veins, threatening to clog them with their thickness. Arthur closed his eyes, his face still a blank mask.  
He wished he had never picked up that knife, because this, this was far worse than before.  
Arthur would give anything, anything, to make those last few moments go away.  
To make Alfred F. Jones go away.


	7. Chapter 7

Alfred hadn't known what he was doing when he walked in the bathroom. He didn't have to use it, not really; he was just wandering around aimlessly until he thought of something to do. Maybe he would call Mattie? He wondered if his twin had already found out that Alfred had changed his ringtone... again.  
Plans forming inside of his head, Alfred went to pull the door open, pausing when he noticed that someone had tried to lock the door. Huh. All the bathroom locks were disabled after the incident with Francis last year, everyone knows that... his curiosity aroused, Alfred pulled open the bathroom door, peering eagerly into the room to see what was going on. And freezing when he actually saw.  
There was Arthur, his beautiful face violently twisted with some ugly emotion, chest rising and falling in rapid jerks. In his hand he held a lethal looking military knife, a knife that was stained with crimson, a crimson that stained Arthur's left wrist and was quickly spreading down his arm and into the sink below it.  
Alfred stood there in horror, disbelief painting his visage as his eyes struggled to take in the gruesome sight before him. Arthur... what... what's going on?! Alfred's shock was violently pushed to the back of his mind as he watched Arthur bring the knife back upwards. As his porcelain hand brought the weapon down in a graceful arc, Alfred didn't bother to form a coherent thought, lunging towards his, his- dammit, his Arthur! He lunged towards his Arthur and wrapped one strong arm around his waist as the other hand flew to curl around the hilt of the offending object, covering the Brit's own hand and stopping its downward progress.  
For a moment the world was still. Alfred's thoughts were a seething mass of unintelligible things, roiling and crashing together like waves in a vast ocean being plagued by a violent storm. Words kept running through his mind, words like Arthur, mine, why? You can't, you can't, you aren't allowed, why the hell, what, oh man, Atrie, fuck, if you die- shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.  
Alfred quickly turned Arthur around. “Do you know how deep you cut?” Arthur didn't respond.  
“Arthur? Answer me dammit! This is fucking important, what if you die? Fuck this shit, we're going to the nurse, you need help.” Alfred tugged Arthur's good arm, attempting to pull Arthur towards the door and simultaneously slip the crimson dipped knife from his grasp. Arthur seemed to suddenly snap back to himself, giving Alfred a genuine growl whilst jerking his wrist out of Alfred's grasp. The punk shot Alfred a withering glare, to which Alfred responded by looking at Arthur in a helpless confusion. Arthur made his way back to the sink, sticking his wrist under the faucet and letting the clear water wipe away the slightly congealed blood there. The crimson liquid still flowed freely from the deep slash, staining the clear water a terrifying and murky color of red.  
Once Arthur had cleaned his wrist from blood, he moved on to his knife, calmly pulling out a black cloth and wiping the blood off of it. When Arthur pulled the knife away, Alfred saw that the rag had no visible stain on it.  
It was all Alfred could do to keep standing. He didn't know what the fuck was going on- Arthur was being way too calm about this! He should be screaming! Shouting! Crying! Not calm! Alfred started to hyperventilate. Arthur's wrist was still bleeding. A horrible thought struck him. What if Arthur wanted to die? What if he was stalling so that Alfred couldn't save him? No! That couldn't be allowed to happen!  
Alfred immediately sprung into action, grabbing Arthur around the waist and hauling him towards the door. His hold was firm, but not too tight. He didn't want to hurt him anymore, and what chance did a skinny thing like Arthur have against him?  
An unstoppable force swept beneath his feet, causing his legs to fly out from under him. Arthur easily twisted out of his grasp as Alfred fell on his ass. Arthur's eyes burned with disgust as they traveled over his face. His nostrils flared and he turned away, striding over to his guitar case. He removed a medium sized box as Alfred struggled to stand- the force of his fall had knocked the breath out of him. Alfred looked up in worry as he saw Arthur hunched over his injured arm. His worry quickly turned to panic. What if he's making another cut? Alfred ignored the protest of his muscles as he leaped to the Brit's side, hand already going for the knife he knew was there.  
Arthur quickly jerked out of the way, causing Alfred to fall over once more. He looked up, trying to find his target, when he realized it was't there. Arthur wasn't holding a knife, but a needle. He wasn't ripping his skin apart, but stitching it back together. Alfred mouth fell slightly open. What the hell was going on here? Why did Arthur carry medical supplies around with him?... God, he didn't do this regularly did he?  
Alfred's frantic thoughts were interrupted by Arthur tying off the stitches he had made. Alfred pushed himself to his knees as Arthur replaced the needle and box. He rolled down the sleeve of his jacket and threw his guitar bag over his shoulder. Alfred quickly stood, blocking Arthur as he headed towards the door. Arthur glared up at him.  
“Let me pass.” Arthur's voice was a deadly calm. It had a quietness to it that shouted louder than any voice could ever hope to to get out of his way before he fucked you up.  
Alfred, however, was having none of it. “You aren't leaving?” his voice was incredulous. After what he had just seen, after what he had just stopped, Arthur was just going to walk away as if nothing had happened?  
Arthur didn't even bother with insults. “I am. Move.” It was clearly a command. Alfred completely ignored it.  
Anger colored his features as he looked at Arthur. “You're just gonna up and leave? After what I just saw? Oh no, pretty boy, you're gonna tell me what the fuck is going on.” Alfred's gut suddenly exploded in an agony that ripped a moan from his throat. He doubled over, clutching his abdomen as Arthur withdrew his fist. He calmly stepped around Alfred. As he was pushing open the bathroom door, he stopped, his acid green eyes meeting Alfred's pain filled gaze.  
“ Don't ever call me pretty.” And then he was gone.  
Alfred slowly straightened, wincing all the while. Arthur may not look like it, but he packed a hell of a punch. Alfred gingerly lifted his shirt, wincing as he saw the large dark bruise that had already formed. He slumped against the closed door, letting his shirt fall as he did so. His tired eyes flickered over the bathroom; there was no sign of what had just occurred. Not a drop of blood, not scratch from a knife, not a- what?  
Alfred bent down, picking up a small piece of paper that had been resting by his feet. After some deliberation, he unfolded the sheet. On it was a phone number and a blood red print of lips, along with a note written in flowing, girly handwriting.

Arthur,  
Thanks for a wonderful night, I'd love to do it again sometime.  
You know where to find me,  
Alice  
P.S. Next time, I think I'll take you up on that offer. xx

 

It was short and to the point, but extremely suggestive. Alfred felt sick. He was about to rip the paper apart when he thought better of it. Maybe this Alice could tell him something about Arthur? He grudgingly placed the paper in his pocket. He was determined to be Arthur's hero, whether he liked it or not. And if he had to talk to this whore to help him, so be it. As Arthur exited the bathroom, his mind turned to more uncomfortable thoughts, primarily; What had Arthur offered? Why had he done this?Did this mean Arthur wasn't a faggot?  
Alfred winced. He ran both hands through his hair, attempting to focus his thoughts. He failed, but then, he wasn't ever expecting to succeed. Alfred sighed, setting off towards the Home Economics classroom. He needed to be around his brother right now, so much so that he didn't even care that Francis and Toni would be there too. He would deal with their questions later. Right now he just needed calming down, and no one calmed him better than Mattie.

 

 

Gilbert wasn't quite sure why he had taken Phys Ed. He was already on the football team, which counted as a P. E. class. So technically he was exempt. But he took it anyways.  
And it wasn't as if he did it on a whim, he enjoyed exercise, and adored the burn of his muscles as they underwent Gilbert's personal, and extremely strenuous, training regimen. Maybe he was thinking he would get more exercise if he took the class.  
He didn't. A typical P. E. class was go in, dress out, maybe run. Then you could walk or play basketball. They occasionally had something specific to do, but those occasions were few and far between. Your grades were given purely on participation.  
Gil was currently standing beside their teacher, listening and occasionally nodding as their incompetent coach blathered on about the importance of arriving to class on time, especially on your first day. Why, you might ask? Arthur Kirkland of course, why else?  
Arthur was currently twelve minutes late. This was the amount of time it took Coach Houggert to take roll and realize that they were missing a certain Briton. When Gilbert had risen to his defense- it was only his first day here after all- Coach Who had gone off on one of his famous tangents.  
He was still ranting when Arthur slipped through the gym doors. Silence fell instantaneously.  
Gil noticed something was very wrong right away. Arthur was paler than he had been earlier, his head was slightly drooping, his shoulders slumped. Gilbert frowned. Where was the cocky bastard he had spoken to at the chemistry lab? Arthur, as if he felt Gilbert's stare, glanced up. Gilbert froze. His eyes were empty again, void of all emotion. Arthur blinked, and suddenly it was gone, that smirk back in place and those eyes filled with a curtain of darkness. Arthur broke away from Gilbert gaze, sliding his eyes back over to the coach.  
Coach Who looked as if he was desperately trying to chew Arthur out, but didn't know where to begin. His mouth worked furiously, chewing on the words he was attempting to spit out. His brow furrowed. Arthur stood quietly in the doorway at first, before he approached the coach. Gilbert crossed his arms, leaning forwards a bit. Arthur stopped a couple of feet from Coach Who and Gilbert. His eyes flickered to the floor.  
“I'd like to sit out of class today. I'm feeling ill.” Bullshit. Arthur was epitome of health only minutes before.  
“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you, Mr. Kirkland. What are you supposedly suffering from that causes you to be too sick to play?” Gilbert shot Coach Who a glare that went unnoticed. Gil might have known that Arthur was perfectly healthy, but Coach didn't. He was merely being prejudiced.  
Arthur's face darkened, before he sighed dejectedly.  
“I'm not sick. I was helping with moving things in yesterday, boxes and whatnot. When I was carrying a particularly large one upstairs I took a misstep, resulting in a rather nasty tumble.” Arthur shrugged.  
Coach snorted. “For all I know you could've fallen down two steps. Prove you aren't lying.” The look that Arthur gave Coach Who made Gilbert gulp. It was the kind of look that seemed to coldly and malevolently calculate your eminent demise. This time, Arthur didn't bother with masking his emotions.  
“Do you have a locker room?” Arthur asked, his voice holding all the ice of an arctic storm. Coach Who, through either an iron will or sheer stupidity, did not flinch. He nodded in affirmation.  
“Where?” Again, Arthur's voice was cold. Coach Who's face began to contort with confusion, his thick eyebrows lowering on his broad forehead to give him an almost apeish look. He gestured in the direction of the changing rooms. Arthur turned on his heel and motioned for the Coach to follow. Coach didn't move. Gilbert looked at the man in annoyance, before following Arthur. The blond probably hadn't meant for Gilbert to come as well, but the albino didn't care. This was important, and he'd be damned if he wasn't there to see what happened.  
Reluctantly, Coach Who followed. They glided through the door to find Arthur standing before them, arms crossed. He shot Gilbert an annoyed look, but didn't demand that he leave. Instead he ordered, his voice ringing with authority, “Close the door.” Gilbert obliged.  
Trepidation filled his heart, spilling over and flooding his lungs, as he turned back to Arthur. He really didn't know anything about the Brit. He could have asked Gilbert to shut the door so that no one heard what he was about to say. What if he had something on Coach like he did on Mr. J? Shit, what if he had something like that on Gilbert?  
Gilbert's mind frantically ran over the less-than-legal things he had done as his eyes swept over Arthur's face, searching for some hint as to what the other was thinking. His own manic fear faded as he stared into Arthur's eyes, losing himself in their murky depths. He couldn't help it. It was almost as if he were Dorthy in that old American movie, and he had just found out that the secret to the greatest wizard in all of Oz lie behind the curtain before him. The curtain that currently resided in Arthur Kirkland's eyes.  
The silent tension was momentarily broken when Arthur turned his back to the two of them. Gilbert's brow furrowed. What the hell? His confusion only increased as Arthur shrugged out of his jacket and began tugging up his shirt. Gilbert made to look away, when a dark patch just above Arthur's belt caught his attention. Whoa, was that a tattoo? Gilbert, against his better wishes, glanced back. His face grew slack. His eyes widened, horror burning within them. He gulped and stood there, unblinking, unable to tear his gaze away as Arthur finished removing his shirt.  
What Gilbert had thought was a tattoo was actually the end of a large bruise that spanned from Arthur's lower back all the way up to his left shoulder. An unnaturally straight line served as the edge of the monstrosity, separating the half of Arthur's back that was colored black from the other half.  
But that wasn't the end of the atrocities. Gilbert could see countless small bruises, shaped in perfect circles, decorating both of Arthur's hips and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Some of them looked older, while some seemed far too recent. A wide cut ran up diagonally from Arthur's left hip to his right shoulder, a nasty scab covering it. Directly under his right shoulder blade was a ripped up area of skin, colored in a slightly yellowing bruise and busted and cut until it no longer resembled skin at all.  
Scars coated his back, raised, fading, long, short, wide, thin. They were oddly shaped, jagged to straight, curved to edged, some even resembling words. The scars traveled from his back, around his torso, over his shoulders, up his neck, in his hairline, down into his jeans.  
Gilbert started trembling. Then there were the tattoos.  
Gilbert couldn't see all of them, but he saw enough. Arthur's back was half taken up by an awesome electric guitar, done with obvious skill. That wasn't what concerned Gilbert.  
On Arthur's hip was a heart. It was somewhere between an actual human heart and a classic valentine's day heart, with veins striping the plump surface, giving the normally cute object a sickly air. The main veins drooped around the heart, blood running down its surface and painting certain areas a deep red. A large stake peirced the heart from bottom to top, stained red and dripping with blood. Barbed wire wrapped around the entire thing, constricting it all so tightly that each object was grossly mutated. In some areas, the heart seemed to have grown over the wire, in others it seemed as if the wire had only recently ripped open the tissue there. The heart looked bruised, scarred, tortured. Blacks, browns, reds, purples, and silvers were the only colors shown.  
Gilbert wasn't sure which part of Arthur's back was the most horrifying. All together though, it made Gilbert want to vomit.  
Gilbert really doubted that Arthur had fallen down a staircase.  
After a moment, Arthur pulled his shirt back over his head and slipped on his jacket once more, effectively covering the horrors that Gilbert now knew lie beneath. Arthur's shoulders rose once, before falling, a deep rush of air accompanying the movement. When he turned around, Gilbert saw that his face was still blank, holding absolutely no emotion.  
“May I sit out now?” Gilbert's head snapped back over to the coach. In his haze, he had forgotten the other man's presence. Coach's face was white as a sheet. He wordlessly nodded. Arthur immediately strode towards the door, catching his guitar and throwing it back around him in one fluid movement on his way out. He pushed open the door, almost gliding through it. He didn't look back.  
The door clicked as it fell back shut.  
There was a moment of silence.  
“Stay away from him.” Gilbert looked over at the coach in shock. He didn't actually just say that... did he?  
“Sir?” Gilbert asked, allowing his shock to color his voice. The coach looked at him, his face deadly serious.  
“Stay away from that kid. He's bad news. Those tattoos, those scars, those piercings; it all practically screams 'delinquent'. Now, you might not be one of my boys, but you are one of the school's best football players, and I think I speak for everyone when I tell you not to go near him.” Gilbert's mouth opened and closed, his expression imitating that of a fish drowning in the air. He couldn't believe this. Sure, Arthur looked scary- fuck, he was scary- but whatever was going on, he obviously needed help. Why didn't coach see that? Why wasn't he able to see those lifeless eyes?  
Gilbert shuddered from the mere memory. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. He felt as if he had brushed past death. And who knows? Maybe he had.  
Arthur was an enigma, a terrifying, inconstant, variable. Everything about him screamed at you to run away. So why the fuck couldn't Gilbert run?  
Gilbert frowned, allowing some of his panic to show on his face as he mumbled a quick, “Yes'sir,” back to the coach. The coach clapped him on the shoulder once before walking out of the door to start the class, leaving Gilbert alone in the locker room with scattered and unsure thoughts banging around the inside of his head.  
Gilbert sat heavily down on the bench behind him, resting his elbows on his knees and clutching his head in his hands. This was too much to take in, too much to handle. There were too many missing pieces. Gilbert heaved a dry laugh.  
Something inside Gilbert had shut off when he had seen Arthur's back. Something had refused to process. It was as if Arthur had stolen something vital of Gilbert's, something that he desperately needed in order to function properly. And now...  
Now, Gilbert was far too invested to let this go. He didn't know why, but he knew that he was, and for Gilbert, that was enough. He figured he'd come back to that when it became relevant.  
Gilbert stood up and stretched before quietly slipping out the old and battered door. Coach barely spared him a second glance when he asked to be excused, just absently nodding his head as he yelled at Heracles who, it seemed, had fallen asleep in the bleachers. Again.  
Gilbert turned around to face the overlarge double doors, heaving one open and starting off to the Home Ec room.   
Gilbert didn't exactly have a plan for figuring Arthur out. He guessed, though, that a certain Frenchman might be able to help him out with that. He just hoped Francis would be more willing to cooperate then Arthur.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur hastily made his way to the front of the building, navigating the school's twisting passageways with ease. Occasionally, he had to circle back around in order to keep moving forward, but he eventually reached the front doors. His pace quickened when they first fell into his sight, his long legs unfolding in loping strides that carried him through the glass doors at a manic pace. He didn't slow as he entered the parking lot, the soft breeze that wove throught the spring air did not distract him. He almost ran across the parking lot, only stopping when he reached its very edge. He didnt bother to make sure he was alone- he was beyond caring at this point. He slipped behind a group of cars, hands thrusting wildly into his pockets and fumbling with his pack of fags. Once he had managed to extract one, he brought out his lighter, quickly striking up a flame and slightly burning himself in the process. He quickly rasied the smoldering fag to his lips and inhaled deeply. He held his breath for a moment, before releasing the smoke in a slow, steady stream that clouded the pure air. Arthur quickly took another drag.  
This wasn't what he had planned. Granted, he hadn't really taken the time to plan anything about this day. Hell, he hadn't given it any thought other than, “Don't do shit that makes Reiner pissed.” He had assumed that, “ Don't lay your secrets out for the world to see,” was a given.  
Apparently he was wrong.  
Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back, releasing another stream of smoke into the air above him. What on Earth had possessed him to cut at school? On his first bloody day? And then he just had to go off and display the most morbid conglomeration of wounds and scars, to a teacher and a bloke who already showed too much of an interest in him! Arthur wound his fingers in his hair, his legs slowly folding beneath him as he sank onto the ground. He brought his knees up to his chin, lowering his forehead down upon them. After a moment he released the punishing grip on his golden locks, in favor of raising the cigarette he still held to his lips for another deep inhale. He let out the smoke in a shakey breath.  
This... this was awful. Things would go around- people never kept quiet. Rumors would spread like wildfire, theories and gossip would flit from tongue to ear faster than the eye can blink. He should never have broken down in that bathroom. Arthur clinched his hands into fists, cursing himself for being so weak. He was weak for having to resort to such things, he was weak for having to skip class because a simple no one saw him make a tiny scratch on his arm. He was weak for being here, now, having a smoke on the ground of the parking lot. He was weak for being afraid of what was to come.  
Because when rumours started flying, that was when they would all shed their outer skins, when they would dispatch of their false smiles and their sickening laughs. That was when their true colours would burst forth. They would sneer at him, smirk at him. They would prance around with smug faces, knowing that they were better than him and impowered with the knowledge. Some would settle for merely gloating, for holding dominion over him. Others would lash out with words, their tongues spewing the awful truths about himself that he normally hid so well. And for others, even this would not be enough. They would need physical proof that they were better than him, a proof that would manifest in the form of black eyes and new bruises colouring Arthurs body. They would come alone at first, smirking as their friends egged them on, watching from the sidelines. When they discovered that Arthur would fight back they would come in pairs, and then in triplets. When that failed, they would become angry, they'd box him in, surround him on all sides.  
He couldn't take them all, not without killing. And though Arthur was low, he would never stoop to that level.  
Yes, there was Hell to come.  
Maybe he should've just gone to Renier.  
Arthur flinched at the mere idea. He had been... avoiding, Renier for several days now. If he had gone to Reneir, Arthur would've just handed him a perfect excuse fro him to remind Arthur about their “deal”. Arthur swallowed thickly. No, he'd much rather be in his current situation.  
Arthur let out a harsh, quiet laugh as he brought his fag once more to his lips. He had forgotten- his mum was going to be away for the next two days, looking at a job several towns over. He was going to be alone with Renier for two nights, after having evaded his grasp for almost a week. He buried his face in his hands.  
Please, if there is anyone or anything out there, please... let me be able to let go.

 

 

“Hand me that spoon, will ya, Al?” Alfred's sky blue eyes scoured the counter before him as he searched valiantly for the spoon Mat had requested. Matthew clucked his tongue impatiently as he rapidly whisked the batter contained within the bowl before him.  
“C'mon, Al, I don't have all day.”  
“Sorry, you know my eye-sight is bad.” Matthew rolled his eyes.  
“We're twins, idiot. I have the same crappy eye-sight that you do, and I can see the spoon just fine.” Alfred sputtered and whirled around, searching desperately for the elusive spoon, when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He whipped his head back around to see a smirking Francis... offering his brother a large metal spoon. He sent Francis a sharp look that died before it was seen.  
“Where were you?” Alfred demanded angrily. Francis quirked an eyebrow at him, temporarily ignoring Matthew's distracted mutter of thanks.  
“I was, ah, exploring the petals of an unplucked flower, ohonhonho~.“ Francis winked slyly at Alfred his eyebrows wriggling with life of their own. His grin faltered slightly when Alfred's face did not change. Francis's brow furrowed, and he leaned in slightly towards Alfred.  
“Mon ami, is something wrong?”he kept his voice low, his eyes locked upon Alfred's immobile face. A great stone settled in his stomach, as Alfred offered him a curt nod. He searched Alfred's visage for some indication as to what might be going on. Finding none, he gestured for Alfred and himself to head towards the door, the stone in his stomach steadily growing into a mountain as they made their way into the deserted hallway. Francis pushed open the classroom door, allowing Alfred through first, before turning to carefully ease itshut.  
A large hand closed around his shoulder, whirling him back around and slamming his back against the hard contours of the brick wall behind him, forcefully evicting the breath from his lungs. His eyes flickered first to the hand still pinning him against the wall, then to Alfred's face. Francis soundlessly gulped. Alfred's handsome visage was twisted into something horrifyingly ugly. Alfred twisted his hand so that he could press his forearm against the front of Francis's shoulders and neck, effectively preventing him from moving. Francis, however, was too stunned to even speak.  
Alfred's breath was warm on his face, his massive body looming before Francis's own slim form, far too close for comfort. As if this alone was not enough, Alfred leaned closer still. Francis pressed back into the wall, struggling to back further away from Alfred's domineering form.  
“What are you to Arthur?” Francis's eyes shot up to meet Alfred's own, ocean meeting sky.What the hell? Oh no...it's only his first day, he can't have pissed Alfred off that quickly... Right? Francis internally berated himself. Of course he can, he's Arthur. Shit...  
“What did he do?” Though it had been phrased as a question, it rolled off Francis's tongue somewhere between a statement and a sigh.  
Alfred's reaction was immediate. He released Francis as if the Frenchman's very skin had burned him, backing up and crossing his arms over his chest in a very defensive stance. He seemed to almost shrink in upon himself, and for the first time ever, Francis felt taller than Alfred.  
Francis's heart began a fast paced dance within the confines of his chest. The boulder that had previously resided in his stomach had grown almost too heavy for him to carry.Westview High's star quarterback was not one who was easily messed with; if Arthur had reduced him to such a state one his first day... Francis dreaded to hear what Alfred said next.  
Alfred's gaze slid towards the ground. “D-do you know about... what he does?” Alfred's voice was barely a whisper, it grated against the insides of Francis's ear like the wails of a dying cat. With every passing minute Francis grew more and more sure that this situation wasn't going to end as he had previously expected.  
Francis raked his eyes over Alfred, who still refused to meet his gaze. Even so, he might not have much time... he carefully assessed the situation, keeping his expression a controlled neutral as he decided on how to respond.  
“Oui,” he whispered to Alfred, his tone low and soothing, as if he were attempting to calm an upset child. “I know. Now please, Alfred... what has mon lapin done?” Alfred either didn't notice Francis slip back into French, or he didn't care. He nodded absently at the ground.  
“ It was around ten minutes ago. I-I went to the bathroom- he had tried to lock the door. He had a huge knife and-God Francis, there was so much blood. His wrist... I think he might have been trying t-to kill himself.” Francis's thulian lips parted, his mouth forming the smallest of “o's” before he took off, streaking through the hallways madly. If Arthur was still on campus, Francis knew exactly where he would be. He just hoped that he arrived before Arthur did anything else stupid.

 

 

Francis arrived at the parking lot in record time, bursting through the glass double doors and only stopping once he had reached the centre of the lot. His cerulean eyes danced over his surroundings, barely pausing long enough to register their significant lack of a certain blond British boy before racing onwards to scour some other area of the lot.  
Francis closed his eyes; he was getting nowhere with this chaotic search. Think, Francis, where would an upset Arthur Kirkland go- other than a bar.  
Francis sighed in frustration. This was fruitless, he knew Arthur was most likely already off in hiding, drinking himself into a stupor. Francis's thoughts swirled and spiraled, continually delivering him the worst outcome possible. He rocked on his feet, he clutched his head in his hands, mentally begging these awful images to cease, but still they persevered, tormenting him more and more until he finally took off towards the back of the lot, retrieving his keys from the uncharted depths of his pocket as he went.  
When he finally reached his car he raced around to the drivers side, where he tripped heavily on top of something quite large.  
“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, Frog?” Francis blinked blearily up... from Arthur Kirkland's lap.  
A lewd smirk curled over Francis's lips as he wound his arms around Arthur's neck. Arthur stared impatiently down at him, rosebud lips turned downwards and one blond eyebrow arched condescendingly. Francis's smirk grew. Only Arthur could make something so simple seem so condescending.  
Francis leaned in slowly. “You've been smoking, mon lapin.” Francis's voice was low, creeping into Arthur's ear and coiling through his mind.  
In response Arthur blew a stream of smoke directly into Francis's face.  
Francis frowned up at Arthur, climbing gracefully from his lap with a dignified “harrumph.” Arthur chuckled at his antics, raising his fag once more for a long inhale. Francis's face hardened, reaching out to lower Arthur's cigarette from his lips, disregarding the fact that he had already taken a rather large puff. Arthur frowned at him, before turning his head to expel the smoke he held within his lungs.  
“Mon amour... what happened?” Arthur stiffened, before reaching out to take back the cigarette Francis had stolen from him. Francis sighed, allowing him to take several more puffs as he awaited an explanation. At length. Arthur replied.  
“I was weak.” Francis held perfectly still, waiting for him to continue. When it became apparent that Arthur had no intention of elaborating, Francis's shoulders fell, his eyes pleading with Arthur's own empty orbs. After a moment Francis relinquished, turning his head and averting his gaze. He knew Arthur would tell him when he was ready. Francis let out a tiny snort. The boy had more secrets than the Earth had air.  
They sat that way for several moments, with nothing between them but silence and the occasional puff of Arthur's breath, before Arthur finally broke their silence.  
“What were you doing out here? Stealing another car?” Francis sniffed, taking a strand of his golden blond hair and twirling it about his fingers.  
“I never stole that, I returned it didn't I?” Arthur gave him a deadpan look.  
“It was totalled.”  
“I still returned it.”  
“That doesn't mean you didn't steal it.”  
“Yes it does.”  
“You took it without the owners permission. That is literally the definition of stealing.”  
“I prefer to say 'borrowed prematurely'. Besides, its not like you haven't done it before.”  
“Yes, but I don't try to pass off stealing as borrowing.”  
Francis turned his face from Arthur, bottom lip poked out in an adorable manly pout. Arthur nudged him with his knee, regaining his attention before nodding up towards the car.  
“So what were you doing?” Francis snorted.  
“Mon lapin, I was looking for you. Petite Alfred came into my cooking class and forced me out the door, slamming me against the wall and demanding that I tell him what I was to you.” Arthur finished his cigarette, blowing smoke outwards and keeping his gazed fixed on the horizon.  
“And?” Francis smirked.  
“And I persuaded him to tell me what had happened.” Arthur shot him a look.  
“Do I want to know what that means?” Francis winked at him.  
“As soon as I heard I knew that, if you were still on campus, you would probably come out here, as you don't yet know how to get to the roof.” Arthur opened his mouth to interject, but Francis bowled over him. “After looking around a bit I was certain you had left off to God knows where. I was just getting in my car when I happened to trip over the very man I was looking for.”  
There was another stretch of silence following this statement. Arthur cast his eyes downwards, and at length replied.  
“Thank you.” It was low, and had been muttered to the ground, but Francis heard it nonetheless. He smiled.  
“Arthur Kirkland. Haven't you learned by now? No matter what, when, or where, I will always be there for you.” Arthur's emerald eyes met his, a small smile, weighed down by innumerable tribulations, making its way to his lips.

 

 

“Have you found him?” the voice was low and distorted, the phone's reciever butchering it's original sound.  
“Da. I will not be able to approach him today though. Perhaps we should wait, watch him for a while.” The other end of the line was silent for a moment.  
“This is your mission, sir. You make the calls; do what you like.”  
“You are most wise, comrade. Then, privet.” He hung up before a response could be made. He shook his head in mild disgust. His father's lackeys had no opinion; they went along with anything he proposed. Then again, in this line of work, opinions will get you killed. His gaze traveled once more to the pair sitting behind the car, eyes drinking in the sight of the green tipped blond. A sadistic smile crept across his face. When he had been given the Englishman's case, he had not expected him to be so young, or so handsome. He turned away and started off, licking his lips. Oh yes, he was going to have fun with this one.  
Ivan laughed, a low threatening sound that rumbled in the back of his throat. Yes, this line of business was brutal, but it definitely had its perks.


	9. Chapter 9

“Vell, Scheiße.” Gilbert had hauled ass to get to Francis's class, loping down the school's obnoixiously long hallways at an alarming speed. He had burst through the Home Ec room door... to find a very depressed Alfred moaning to a very pissed Matthew. Doppelt Scheiße. Gil glanced around the room, trying to locate Francis as quickly as possible. The last thing he wanted was to get roped into another sibling squabble between those two, and if they saw him he sttod no chance. Matthew, the devious bastard, had this innocent face he could pull that made Gilbert melt every single God forsaken time. And he knew he was faking it because he had seen The Great Canadian Terror. After that incident he could confidently say that Matthew Williams was terrifying.  
His eyes swooped over every corner of the classroom, trying to organize the atrocius chaos within the room into something semi-recognizable. Once he had sorted out exactly what was happening where in the room, he managed to ascertain that Francis was not there at the moment, he turned to creep out the door- if he waited on him inside there was a chance that-  
“Gil?” Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße Scheiße  
Gilbert turned around slowly to see the innocent face of a beaming Matthew. He twisted his lips up into either an agonized grimace or a pitiful attempt of a smile. Okay, so maybe it was both. His eyes found Matthew's own radiant ones, guilt beginning to swirl within his abdominal regions, and he slowly made his way over to where Mat was working diligently and Al was still slumped over the table moping.  
“Hallo,” Gilbert slid into to the only empty spot to sit- a stool beside of Alfred. Alfred grunted in what Gilbert supposed was meant to be an acknowledgement.   
“Gil, tell this idiot that Francis is not going to hide Arthur's body.” W-what the fuck?  
Alfred shot up, hands planted firmly on the table as he glared at Mat.  
“Dude, you don't know that! Francis probably knew that Arthur killed himself and went to find his body and went to throw it off a cliff so that scientist's wouldn't find out what kind of relationship they had and go back and tell the whole world and then he probably poured gasoline and a shit ton of lit matches down there and then his body blew up in a huge fireball and now theres like no evidence so we'll never know and Francis is probably drinking wine in celebration right now or maybe he's bought a prostitute hell maybe he is the prostitute and we'll never see Arthur again.” Throughout his tirade, Alfred seemed to deflate, going from angry to worried. Gilbert kept glancing back between Mattie's “I'm done with all this shit” face and Alfred's fervent, worried gaze. Finally Gilbert couldn't take it any longer.  
“Vhat the fuck?”  
The twins blinked at him, their wide eyes making it obvious that they had forgotten Gilbert's presence. After a brief moment Matthew sighed and Alfred frowned, returning to his seat. Gilbert began to tap a finger impatiently against the granite counter top before him.  
“I really have no clue. Al burst in here all worked up about something or another, but I managed to calm him down. Then Francis came in and Al went to talk with him outside, and Al came back like this. Francis has been gone for a while now, who knows where he disappeared off to.” Matthew shot Alfred a worried look. “He still hasn't told me what's wrong,” Matthew murmured to Gil, in what was supposed to be a conspiratorial whisper. Alfred obviously heard, because he suddenly sighed, his face falling as he aged before their very eyes. Gil's eyes narrowed. Alfred was always happy, always smiling. A frown tugged at his lips. Maybe this hole thing with Al was bigger than he thought.  
“It's just... it isn't really my place to say, and- and-” Alfred ran a hand over his face, letting it settle over his mouth. Gilbert had long since stopped his nervous tapping, focusing his whole attention on his distraught friend. He didn't think that he had ever seen Alfred so upset.  
“Alfred,” Matthew began, his voice soft, his brow knitted and violet eyes shimmering with concern for his brother. “Tell us.” His voice only half implored Alfred to reveal the thoughts that tormented him so, the other half of his voice giving him no choice in the matter. Alfred lifted his hand away from his face, his eyes lifting to meet first Gil's, then Matthew's. After a moment, he began to speak.  
“I... I already told Francis about- about what happened.” Matthew opened his mouth, perhaps to encourage Alfred to go on, but closed it as soon as he saw the look on Alfred's face. Gil nodded at him, silently indicating for Alfred to continue.  
Alfred took a deep breath, then went on. “He was cutting his wrist, in the bathroom, after second period-” Alfred's voice was rushed, his tone growing more distressed with every word. Gilbert's breath froze in his throat, his eyes like saucers burned holes into Alfred's anguished countenance. His brain refused to work, thoughts refused to form, static whirred inside his head as his heart pounded against his ears. All he could do was sit, frozen, as Alfred continued his tale. “-he was so upset, one second he was just an empty husk then he was livid then he was calm as hell and he just waltzed out the door like nothing was wrong but oh God whatifhewastryingtokillhimselfandwhatifhewentoffandranaway-”  
“He didn't.” Gilbert's mouth must have moved without his consent, because he could not recall deciding to speak. Matthew and Alfred had now focused on him. His eyes flickered up to them. He inward;y cringed at the intensity of their combined gazes. He now had choice but to continue.  
“At least, he didn't at first.” He wrapped his arms around his chest, as if he were trying to hold himself together.  
“He came in and said he had fallen down stairs moving in yesterday. Coach decided to be an ass an made him show us vhy he had to sit out today.” Gilbert swallowed, recalling vividly the ink and scars adorning Arthur's back.  
Gilbert's voice dropped to a harsh whisper, forcing Alfred and Matthew to lean closer. “His back vas covered in all sorts of scars. Straight, jagged, burned... there vere bruises and cuts, in places that Arthur vouldn't be able to reach...” Gilbert let his voice trail off. Matthew, the poor soul, had the most horrified look on his face that Gil had ever seen on a person. Alfred... Al worried him.  
He was too interested in what Gilbert had to say. He was far too close to Gil, close enough that anti-homo Alfred should be cringing right now, and yet that didn't seem to matter. Gilbert's mind turned back, showing him the previous half of the day in reverse. He had been acting weird all day- it wasn't just now. But this morning he had seemed like normal, like Alfred, until- Gilbert blinked. Until Arthur Kirkland had arrived. Gilbert's eyes narrowed slightly at the boy before him. He wasn't just too interested in Gilbert's story- he was too interested in Arthur.  
Anger bubbled up within him. This was his best friend, verrdammit! They told each other everything- Al had no right to be so interested in Arthur! The more Gilbert thought about it, the angrier he got.  
It was then that he decided he would not tell them about Arthur's tattoos. It was then that he started keeping secrets from his best friend. It was then that he decided to let Alfred know nothing, nothing, about Arthur Kirkland.  
Perhaps in some small corner of his mind, he realized that the current spiral of his thoughts were senseless. That there was as of yet no rational reason for his anger. Perhaps he purposefully kept that little ball of logic buried deep within him. Or perhaps he was just hopelessly oblivious.  
Yeah... my money's on oblivious.

 

 

“Bloody hell, is that the bell already?” Francis chuckled at him, flicking his long golden locks away from his face in a highly supercilious manner.  
“But of course, mon lapin. We have eight periods here- well, seven, and then a lunch period after fourth. Do you know what you have next?” Arthur sat up from where he had been leaning back against Francis's car, popping his joints before digging into his guitar case for his disregarded schedule. His eyes flicked quickly over the disjointed writing. He had signed up for these classes, yes; it had just been a while ago. It would seem that after lunch he had Calculus, followed by Writing, and ending with Theatre. Calculus wasn't all that bad, he adored writing, and William Shakespeare had been his celebrity crush when he was six, seven, eight, and nine. He had fallen out of love with the man when he had finally encountered a portrait of him; he might be able to tolerate that mustache, but the receding hairline was a no.  
“Calculus, you?” Francis took a moment to choke on air. Arthur's eyebrows lowered, his confusion far overreaching his concern for Francis. Franny was a big boy. He could take care of himself.  
After Francis finally managed to dislodge the oxygen from his throat, he looked at Arthur with wide eyes.  
“How the hell did you manage to get Calculus? You have to take five different classes before you take Calculus. Are you sure?” Arthur narrowed his eyes at Francis.  
Pop! “OW! What the hell was that for?”  
Arthur smiled smugly as Francis rubbed his head sullenly, his lips poking out and his eyes gazing at Arthur indignantly through lowered lashes. Arthur almost chuckled. Sometimes Francis almost managed to fool him into thinking he had a sort of childish innocence. Then his brain supplied him with a whole host of memories of Francis that were most certainly not innocent.  
“That, my Dear Froggy Friend, was for doubting my innumerable skills, particularly those in the mathematics department.” Francis gave him a skeptical look. “Oh come on. I'm good at school things. Even math.” Francis sighed.  
“Mon cher, I do not doubt your 'innumerable skills' as you say. I am shocked that you were there often enough to get a passing grade in the required classes.”  
Arthur grinned devilishly at him. “Darling, haven't you noticed by now? I'm just that good.” Francis chuckled as Arthur winked coyly at him. Sighing, he stood, before turning to help Arthur to his feet as well. Francis stretched as Arthur retrieved his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and raising a questioning brow at Francis.  
“It's lunch hour, remember?” Arthur grew still, his mouth opening to speak, but Francis beat him there.  
“Today's on me, okay? No protests. No fighting. If you ever need for me to pay, I'm always here for you.” Francis glared at Arthur, daring him to protest. Arthur glared back, before sighing in defeat. He wondered at his friend as they began to walk towards the cafeteria. Francis was a dirty pervert, a mischievous child, and a helicopter mother all rolled into one. He was weird as hell, full of contradictions, and generally an ass. Arthur smiled at Francis's back as the man flitted flamboyantly down the hallways, glancing back at Arthur every now and then to make sure he was following.  
He wouldn't have him any other way.  
Up ahead, Francis had disappeared, but Arthur wasn't overly worried. He was pretty sure that Francis had only rounded the next corner. If he hadn't, well, who cares? Getting lost would give Arthur the perfect excuse to 1) miss lunch 2) avoid people in general and 3) explore the school. Arthur sighed. Even getting lost wasn't that much of an excuse. With the building's blockish shape you could easily find your way to a landmark- or find someone to help you find your way to a land mark. Though, to be fair, this school did have an obnoxious amount of unnecessarily confusing hallways.  
As he walked, he strove to take in more details about his newest allocation (better to get to know it now than when his lack of foreknowledge would cost him). The hallways were fairly high, between four and five meters. The walls were made from large sections of cinder block, but several coatings of a beige paint had drastically smoothed the surface. Arthur frowned. Not as easy to climb as his last school, but not impossible. The doors were only about a meter apart, so he'd be able to use those as leverage... the hallways were fairly narrow as well. If he could get to the top of the door ways, he could easily use to friction of the wall and his shoes coupled with constant momentum to elevate himself to the point where he could easily grasp onto the metal rafters of the ceiling. Huh, much easier than I originally thought... perhaps even easier than my last school.  
Arthur was just trying to approximate the time it would take for him to scale one of these walls in relation to the walls at his old school when loud shouting made its way to his ears. Arthur frowned, blocking the sound out. Well, my old school had plain brick walls, which certainly increased grip, but the hallways weren't as narrow. This school requires a little more acrobatics than my old school... but perhaps that wont increase the time required at all, perhaps that will only affect my energy expenditure- . Arthur was finding it harder and harder to block out the ruckus echoing through the halls. He seemed to be drawing nearer to whatever it was.  
A cry pierced the air around Arthur. The low rumblings of before were now gone, replaced by the dull roar of many people attempting to speak over one another. Arthur quickened his pace unconsciously, his neck craning as he peered around the next corner. His steps increased in frequency ever more until he was at the source of the noise, the sounds roiling around him. He barely had time to glance at the circle of people in the centre of the room before someone violently grabbed his arm and began dragging him back the way he had just came.  
Arthur reacted almost instinctively. Using the vice like grip of the person against him, he heaved himself sideways, his sudden shift of weight throwing the person off balance. Their grip on Arthur's arm loosened, and he immediately wrenched free. He lunged in, hooking a foot behind the other's unsteady legs, causing them to fall backwards, only to catch them and spin them against the wall, one hand holding the arm that previously had grasped his behind the persons back and the other buried in long blond hair, pressing the other's face against the wall. He let out a low snarl, and- wait. Long blond hair?  
“ Mon cher, you are too cruel to moi.” Arthur blinked, once, twice, before spinning Francis back around and swearing colorfully.  
“Bloody hell Francis, what the fuck were you thinking?!” Francis brushed away Arthur's hands from where they lingered on his shoulders.  
“Just come with me.” Francis started back down the hallway. Arthur didn't move.  
“Why?” Francis turned back around, his face pleading with Arthur as his lips remained still. Arthur's expression did not change, his posture bespoke of his unwillingness to move without a proper answer. Francis's eyes flickered back to the crowd once before his eyes found Arthur's again.  
“Please.” Arthur gave Francis a long look, before turning on his heel and racing back to the crowd. He wove through people, simultaneously worming his way to the centre and escaping from Francis. He heard Francis shouting his name from the background, before the dull roar of the gathered students drowned out the possibility of any further communication.  
As Arthur made his way to the centre, he began to pick out little things.  
There were three people in the circle's middle. Two were standing up, one seemed to be on the ground.  
Arthur continued to elbow and squeeze his way to the middle.  
The one on the ground was hunched over, his legs folded beneath him.  
As people started realising just who was rudely pushing through the crowd, they began to edge out of his way.  
His forehead was touching his knees, his hands hovered over one side of his face.  
Heads began turning his way as well, mouths muttered speculations and revealed hopes that Arthur would be there to further dramatize the situation.  
As Arthur finally made his way into the circle he was able to grasp several things. 1) One of the two boys standing was Alfred's Spanish friend. 2) The boy on the floor had a large bruise on the side of his face that was actually bleeding. And 3) the Spaniard and his friend were laughing.  
“What's going on here?” Arthur's voice held no hint of the accusation he felt, his face showed no trace of it and his posture showed it not an ounce. It was times like these that Arthur felt he deserved an Oscar.   
The Spaniard and his friend looked up at him, before breaking out in blinding smiles.  
“Amigo! I do not think we have met- I'm Antonio Fernandez Carriedo and my friend here is Sadiq Annan.” Arthur's nose did not wrinkle in disgust, he did not devolve into raging tantrums and did not scream for them to answer his question. Instead, he replied;  
“Pleasure.” Arthur gestured towards the boy on the floor. “And his name?”  
Antonio's smile dropped, his face darkening like the sky during a hurricane. “That is trash. It's dirty and wrong and doesn't deserve to live, let alone have a name.” Arthur let his blank shell slip a bit, pursing his lips and clicking his tongue. He turned to the other boy.  
“And you- Sadiq, was it? Will you tell me this lad's name?” Sadiq snorted.  
“This thing isn't a “lad”. Who cares what it's name is? It should die.” Arthur paused, nodding thoughtfully as he strode over to the lad who was still on the ground. Couching down beside of him, he gently lifted the boy's hand's away from his face, addressing Antonio and Sadiq as he did so.  
“And what exactly has made him worthy of this slander?” The boy on the ground flicked uncertain olive eyes up at him, brushing a few strands of long brown hair away from his face as he slowly inched away from Arthur.  
“He's a fag.” Arthur blinked, staring at the bloke on the ground in bemusement.  
“Doesn't look like a cigarette to me.” A few of the onlookers laughed, but Arthur honestly had no idea why (poor Brit, don't worry it's not you, it's the Americans).  
“He means that I held my boyfriend's hand in the hallway.” Ah.  
“Still don't understand while he called you a fag.”  
“Don't worry about it.”  
Arthur whipped his hair out of his eyes, brushing tentative fingers over the lad's bruise, gradually pressing harder until the boy winced. Arthur let his hand drop. Standing, he offered the boy a hand.  
“What are you doing?” Antonio's voice reached him, the wariness and coldness in it surprising him. He was expecting worse. Give it time; I'm sure he'll be suitably livid by the time this is over.  
Arthur promptly ignored him as the shorter boy took Arthur's proffered hand.  
“The bruise isn't too bad, should be gone in less than a week,” Arthur told him, pulling him to his feet.  
“Never caught your name.” The boy gave Arthur a long look.  
“My name is Heracles, Heracles Karpusi. And you are?”  
“Arthur Kirkland. You aren't American, are you?”  
“Greek, actually.” Arthur sighed. Why am I not surprised.  
While Arthur and Heracles had been chatting, Sadiq and Antonio had been standing there, dumbstruck.  
“What the hell are you doing amigo?” Arthur gritted his teeth, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He gave Heracles a sickly sweet smile saying, “Pardon me,” before turning to face the other two.  
“So, you hit him because he's gay.”  
“Of course.”  
Arthur closed his eyes, a look of utter pain gracing his face as he indulged in a drawn out wince at the pure ignorance of the two before him.  
“It was his choice; if he didn't want this he should've just stuck to girls.” Oh no. Oh FUCK no.  
Now, shit was about to go down.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur's knuckles popped menacingly, his grim expression portraying the current direction his thoughts were tending. Even so, the two idiots opposite him were still smiling. A smirk crept its way onto Arthur's solemn visage. He'd fix that soon enough.  
Arthur looked over his shoulder at Heracles. The beaten Greek looked as if he had no idea what was going on. Aw, poor lamb. Arthur grinned at him, honestly grinned, a brilliant grin that shone brighter than the sun after years of eternal night.  
“You might want to back up a bit, love.”  
He turned back round and winked at the two before him, his grin still firmly in place. It seemed as if the pair had finally gathered where this was going. Well, almost. Antonio looked as if he'd been struck by a truck (which Arthur took to be his shock that something had actually managed to work its way through his thick skull), while Sadiq looked like he was still trying to figure out what was going on. Arthur took several steps forward, until there was less than a meter of space between them. He rolled his shoulders, bones popping menacingly as he addressed the two before him.  
“So, if, say, two lads were to kiss-” Antonio's face twisted with horror and Sadiq actually made a gagging noise. Arthur nodded thoughtfully.  
“And if two lasses were to kiss?” No reaction. Arthur arched an eyebrow.  
“Well?” Antonio shrugged, while Sadiq shifted uncomfortably.  
“That's different,” Antonio threw out casually. “Girl's don't come on to you and show off their gayness everywhere. Besides, it's hot.” Antonio laughed and slapped Sadiq's shoulder, who then began to laugh as well. Arthur's smile didn't waver, and he took a step closer. Antonio and Sadiq stopped laughing.  
“Escuchas, mi amigo, I think you are a bit too close.” Arthur tilted his head lazily as he studied Antonio. He did not move away.  
Antonio's olive eyes raked over Arthur's face fearfully. They flickered back to Sadiq briefly before the pair distanced themselves from him ever so slightly. Though minute, the minuscule movement did not escape Arthur's keen eyes. His brow lowered, his eyes narrowed. That wanker just took a step back, Arthur thought. He followed, his own stride matching theirs. Antonio took another step. So did Arthur. The crowd around them got bigger, the circle of free space got wider. Heracles hovered at the edge, eyeing the proceedings warily, while Sadiq kept glancing between Arthur and Antonio, unsure of what to do. Antonio's eyes narrowed.  
“Listen, hermano. You are new here, so you may not know, but we don't like abominations at this school. We have pride in being a normal school, and these faggots,” there was no trace of malice in his tone as he gestured towards Heracles, “love to fuck up our reputation. You get a free pass today, only because I think you might be a pretty okay guy, but next time we'll have to throw you in with them. ¿Comprendes?”  
“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Arthur offered Antonio a grin that was far to innocent to mean anything but agony for anyone who stood in the wearer's way, while his mind raced. HE had said he wasn't going to start a fight. He said he wasn't- wait. He didn't have to start a fight.  
His heart beat faster, and he almost loosed a malicious grin. He was smart, he could play this right. He just needed to figure out what got under this one's skin, and fast.  
“I understand that if you cross me I'll sink you faster than we sank your Armada.” He hated that he had to resort to goading, and half arsed goading at that, but he was never a patient man, and this one didn't seem to be bright enough to understand what was going on.  
He wasn't. As soon as the words had left Arthur's mouth the Spainiard's face had contorted with fury, his hands dancing nervously about his thighs as they itched to avenge their owner's pride by wrapping around the Brit's neck and squeezing until he had juiced all the life from his now lifeless form. A strong tanned jaw clenched, and a terrible smile settled on rosy lips.  
Bloody hell, is the git really that patriotic? Arthur mentally shrugged. Well, if that was what got him going...  
“Oh dear, but I couldn't do that!” Arthur suddenly gasped, his face exhibiting the most overdramatic rendition- and it was a rendition- of shock that this poor school had seen in many years.  
Antonio's ears began to flame as Arthur looked at him with such hurt and disappointment you'd think that Arthur had just caught Antonio cheating on him after years of marriage.  
“¿Y por qué no?” Antonio's voice came out in a low rumble, almost managing to turn his beautiful language menacing. Arthur inwardly smirked.  
“Why not? Because it wouldn't be fair, darling. A Spaniard and his lackey facing off a British gentleman?” Arthur shook his head sadly as Antonio watched suspiciously. Arthur lifted his head up again, locking eyes with the jock. “You wouldn't last two seconds.” Antonio growled. Literally. Arthur couldn't help it; he let out one quick chuckle before regaining his composure. He glanced around quickly, and was relieved to find that no one had caught his slip. Well, no one other than Antonio.  
He was practically snorting out great streams of fire, his face had turned the color of a branding iron. Arthur tutted, and his kind expression and gentle tone bespoke of nothing but genuine concern.  
“Are you alright? Your face has turned a wee bit red... Oh! You probably ate too many tomatoes again, hm love? You know what they say, you are what you-mmpph!” Antonio had slapped his hand over Arthur's mouth. Arthur almost had a grudging admiration for the guy's self-control, until he remembered how he had gone off on the Greek lad simply for being- oh. Of course.  
Arthur could've smacked himself. Here he was making some second grade insults at Spain- what the hell did he know about Spain anyways?- when he could have just pulled out his rainbow-fairymagic and hit the jock with a face full of supergay. Surely that would've pissed the lad off long ago. Arthur ran an eye over the boy before him, making him squirm uncomfortably. It wouldn't take much- Antonio was already livid. Just a little push...  
They were so close together that Arthur could feel the jock's breath on his face. So close that-he hoped- no one else could see his face. Arthur curved his lips up into a smile that he knew Antonio could feel, and he winked.  
Toni's fist hit the air where Arthur's face had just been, and he whirled around, searching manically for the elusive Englishman, as Arthur stood right at the edge of the crowd. Finally! Something fun!  
As Arthur stood there for several seconds more, his eyebrow began to creep up towards his hairline. He wasn't hiding, at all, and he really stood out in his punk attire amidst the sea of black and green. After a good minute of Antonio whirling around in a blind fury, Arthur turned to the boy next to him and in a stage whisper said, “Are all Spaniards this idiotic, or do you think this one's an anomaly?” the lad snickered, and Antonio whirled towards the Brit's voice, charging him with a speed that shocked Arthur. He tried to sidestep, but was a hair to slow; Antonio glanced his side, sending them both stumbling. Note to self; the bastard is fast.  
Arthur frowned as he regained his balance. He had gotten cocky... and forgotten that the Spaniard played sports here. His eyes narrowed as he turned back towards his opponent. He had gone looking for a fight to teach this lad a lesson, not to play. It was time to stop batting his food about and devour it whole.  
Arthur barely gave Antonio time to turn around before he struck, his fist colliding with the side of Antonio's face as his foot swept behind him in an attempt to knock the jock off his feet. Antonio dodged, stumbling a bit to keep his footing and immediately counterattacking, his own fist flying towards Arthur's face. Arthur stepped to the side and forwards, grabbing Antonio's arm and twisting it mercilessly.  
“Sadiq!” Arthur ducked as a huge fist materialized where his head had just been, letting go of Toni's arm in the process. He now faced two big, angry jocks.  
“You're going to pay for that faggot.” Arthur's acidic eyes narrowed. He hated that word. A shit eating grin spread over Antonio's face, as Arthur's teeth ground together.  
“What's the matter? Don't like hearing the truth, faggot?” He really hated that word. Scenes and voices flew through his mind, that word repeating over and over in his head, spoken from a thousand different mouths a thousand different times.  
“Look, the little fag can't even talk back.” HE. DIES. NOW. Arthur lunged forward, his elbow smashing into Sadiq's nose as he brought his knee up into Antonio's stomach. He didn't give them a chance to recover, immediately spinning away only to bring his foot up, lashing it out in a vicious kick that sent Sadiq flying. Those outside the circle caught him, holding him up as he desperately tried to suck in air. Arthur turned away; Sadiq wouldn't be up for a whi- BAM!  
Arthur stumbled away, hand cradling the cheek that Toni had just struck. He spit out a bit of blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. He had underestimated the Spaniard, but he was too pissed off to care. He flew at Antonio like a demon escaping Hell, fists placing pretty little bruises all long Antonio's face. One to the jaw, one crushing the nose, one abusing the cheekbone. Antonio closed his eyes, his fists flailing erratically as he attempted to ward off the Brit's attack. Finally he stumbled away, darting around behind Arthur, hooking a foot behind his knees as he tried to turn and ruthlessly jerking them in, forcing the Brit to the ground. Arthur quickly returned the favor, whipping his legs around and sweeping Toni off his feet and onto the floor with him. Antonio groaned, and tried to get up but Arthur was too quick, launching himself at the incapacitated brunette; he rolled them so that Antonio's back was to the floor and Arthur straddled his hips. Panting, he clenched his thighs around the boy, pinning him to the floor. His face glowed with a primal rage, his teeth ground, and in a red haze he raised his fist to pummel the arrogant shit to a bloody pulp.  
He was against the ground, bleeding, bruised, and terrified. He wanted it to stop, God did he want to end this, but he couldn't fight back, he shouldn't fight back. The man straddling him leaned down to his ear.  
“Don't you remember our deal?” His thick German accent was harsh against Arthur's ear. When he didn't respond, the man's face contorted and his fist posed to strike the boy beneath him. Arthur frantically nodded, and Renier smiled, his fist slowly lowering to grasp the front of the boy's shirt. He bent down until his every breath raced over the child's skin, making it crawl with the fetid feeling.  
“Good,” he growled.  
Arthur's fist dropped. He gulped at the memory, looking at the Spaniard beneath him. Antonio was done; Arthur had definitely broken his nose, probably fractured his cheekbone and done some serious bruising to his jaw. His lip was busted and there was a patch of busted skin bleeding from his forehead.  
Arthur was still angry, but he wouldn't get anywhere with this. He stood up, bending down to haul the taller up by the front of his shirt.  
“And by the way love,” he growled. Antonio flinched, his eyes meeting Arthur's own fearfully, watching for the next punch.  
Arthur grabbed the brunette's face and jerked it towards him. Nails digging into the delicate flesh of tanned cheeks, Arthur lunged forward and planted a kiss directly on the homophobe's lips. Toni froze, too shocked to pull back, and too scared to move at all.  
Arthur kept eye contact with Toni as he pulled away, raising his voice to address everyone, not just the bully. His deep voice rang out loud and clear, his accent rolling the words he spoke to fool any into believing that he read poetry.  
“A kiss is a kiss. It doesn't matter where you give it, or to whom you give it to. It is how it's received that matters.” He tossed the Spaniards face away from him in disgust, readjusted his jacket, and made his way off through the crowd. People parted like water before him. Everything was silent.  
Arthur's face was a blank mask as he walked. Well there goes being good, he thought wearily. He gaze flickered to the last few people between him and solitude. His eyes landed on the panicked face of Francis briefly, before his legs carried him onwards. He inwardly cringed. I really hope I didn't just fuck up royally.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, last chapter that I had pre-made. Chapters from here on out will be posted within a month from one another or sooner.

Alfred tapped his fingers against their lunch table impatiently, their steady drumming doing nothing to soothe his agitated mind. He, Gil, and Mat had eventually gone on to their table in the lunchroom, once Francis had failed to appear before the bell. Since Toni, for some reason, had skipped class, they were the only members of their lunch table in the Home Ec room.  
It had been almost fifteen minutes and neither Francis nor Antonio had showed. For that matter, neither had Sadiq, nor Michelle, nor Ludwig, nor Lili, nor Vash, nor Elizabeta and her “demon douche” boyfriend, Roderich.  
Alfred was practically growling with frustration, when suddenly, the lunchroom was flooded. Students poured through the wide double doors like water spewing through growing cracks in an age old dam. Their voices were raised in a cacophony, filling the cafeteria far better than their bodies could ever hope to manage. Alfred half stood from his seat, brows furrowed beneath the weight of the confusion that rested upon it. Something had happened. He swore to himself. He hated being out of the loop, having to obtain his information from unreliable sources. More importantly, if he wasn't in the loop, that meant he wasn't in the thick of things. But thats just another thought he gracefully swept into the boiling furnaces of his mind to be obliterated instantly. He just wanted to make sure all the information he got was one hundred percent genuine.  
The students were still pouring through the doors relentlessly, when suddenly the flow parted, and from the midst came Antonio, Sadiq, and Francis. Alfred's eyes narrowed. Francis had never been that close to Sadiq, why was his arm...?  
Alfred only realized that his two teammates were being half carried by the willowy Frenchman when Antonio's legs gave beneath him. Alfred glanced back at Gil and Mat, receiving the same wide eyed worry that he knew must be reflected on his own face, before the three of them leaped from the table, Gilbert literally sliding over its top in order to reach their friends.  
Alfred grabbed Sadiq, Gil grabbed Toni, and Mat grabbed Francis, who had begun to wobble without the weight of the two jocks. At this, Alfred smirked a bit, but he couldn't really blame him. While Antonio looked lean, he packed serious muscle, enough to make any swimmer jealous. Sadiq... nope, Sadiq looked every bit as scary as he was. Guy was H-U-G-E.  
They grabbed their wayward teammates, leading them cautiously over to their table as the two babbled nonsensically. Alfred tuned out after hearing Sadiq mumble something about ships. He figured he'd just get the story from Francis.  
Setting Sadiq on one of the table's built in seats, Alfred popped his muscles, wincing. He wasn't joking when he said Sadiq was a big guy. After his (mostly futile) attempt to forcibly evict the weariness from his muscles (because that always works) Alfred started over to Francis.  
Only to realize that the Frenchman was no where in sight.  
A little knot formed in the pit of his stomach, and a frown twisted it's way onto his lips. He glanced over a Mat to find a similar expression pasted onto his twin's face.  
“Where the fuck did Francis go?” Alfred asked, making his way over to Matthew. Matthew's gaze darted sharply towards Alfred, and the antagonized expression left his face, leaving only disinterested worry.  
“He said something about needing to see Arthur, I think- I think Arthur got into a fight with Toni and Sadiq.” Matthew was now intently examining Alfred's face. Which was pointless, because Alfred's face had gone blank with shock. Arthur Fucking Kirkland, Alfred thought in a somewhat awed voice, you have been here a grand total of one half of a day and have already managed to rock the boat that- we thought- was stuck in stone. Lets just hope it doesn't tip.

 

 

Arthur was so fucking done with the world. Shit had gone down and had not yet reached the bottom of You Fucked Up Chasm for the grand Shitsplosion that would surely follow.  
But who gave a flying fuck anyways?  
Fuck all of them. Fuck their benighted opinions. And fuck doing well.  
Maybe he could leave tonight. He'd have to get some things, of course, not to mention track down which town and hotel his mom was staying in. It couldn't be too hard, right? California couldn't be that unnavigable... right?  
Arthur cursed. What was he thinking, California was huge. Fuck, AMERICA was huge. Damn country was bigger than the entirety of Europe.  
Arthur lie back on the ground and closed his eyes, blowing smoke casually up at the afternoon sky. He had no idea where he was, just that he was away from that pit of frustration they had the audacity to call a school house, and that he was in some kind of forest with some truly awesome trees. He sighed, wishing he could stay there forever. He had always loved old forests; there was something almost magical about them. He shifted to get more comfortable, groaning when a stick jabbed into one of his nastier bruises.  
Digging the offending object from beneath him, he scoffed at it before tossing it aside. He settled back down against the now pleasantly stick free ground. He planned grab as much sleep as he could before he had to trudge back to that hellhole of a home. After all, who knew when he'd get a chance again?  
With this thought, he hesitantly drifted into an uneasy slumber, his subconscious supplying him with memories that were far more horrid than any nightmare could dream of.

 

 

Matthew's head was buzzing. They had only just managed to coerce a coherent (albeit incredibly biased) explanation out of Antonio. Arthur had stood up to both Antonio AND Sadiq! At the same time! For someone gay!  
Through the red tinted haze of his love stricken mind, Matthew could only see that Arthur was quite obviously gay (okay, so making out with a male Spaniard might have helped with that Sherlockian deduction a bit) and had stood up for not only himself, but Matthew too. He had patently fallen irrevocably in love with Matthew the day before and had stood up to two of the Princes of the school in the hope that he could prove himself to Matthew, and was even now waiting in an abandoned classroom, wincing from pain at his wounds but too stoic to go to the nurse. His face, melting from pain to euphoria at the sight of Matthew walking through the door, Matthew gasping at his wounds, Matthew insisting that he see the nurse. He would politely refuse in that sexy British accent, because beneath all his piercings and leather, he was a true gentleman. A gentleman, who would get up slowly, and tilt Matthew's chin up with his long pianist fingers before huskily asking permission to kiss-  
Unbidden, an image of Francis popped into his fantasy, and his blushing face melted into a stony grimace. Why the hell were those two together so much? It had been one day, for fuck's sake! He had had his suspicions about Francis's dubious sexuality, of course (funny what being gay does for a man's gaydar), but he never suspected even Francis of relentless pursuit so soon. Matthew's frown deepened. Though, come to think of it, that was a gaffe on his part. Francis's infamous libido knew no bounds.  
Matthew sighed, glancing around the table. Antonio and Sadiq had been escorted (read; forced) to the nurse's office by Ludwig and Elizabeta (who had finally arrived with the massive influx of those who had stayed behind when the lunch bell sounded to bear witness to the fight). Alfred had scurried off God knows where, and Gil was staring at the wall with such intensity that Mat was sure it would disintegrate any second under the weight of his red glare. Rodriech looked terribly out of place without Lizzy there beside him, and the rest of their lunch time menagerie sat huddled together at the end of the table, still raving over what was, from what Matthew heard, the best fight this school had ever seen.  
Matthew sighed dreamily, imagining lean muscles rippling with the force of intense exertion. How he wished he could have been there....

 

 

Fuck EVERYONE and EVERYTHING. DAMN that Arthur Kirkland. DAMN HIM! Antonio sat in the nurse's office, quietly seething. As he once again lifted his half melted bag of ice, in the hopes that it might sooth something, anything, on his battered body, he vowed revenged, sealed a permanent vendetta, and began fantasizing about glorious plots unfolding to eventually lead to the very public and very humiliating demise of one British transfer student.

 

 

Alfred... was lost. In the school. The same fucking school he had attended for three years now, not to mention all the mindless races through the hallways that had gone on sporadically throughout his middle and elementary school years when he had clubs or sports that took place at the high school. Point being, he should know how to get through this school.  
But apparently he didn't. Alfred scowled as he examined his unfamiliar surroundings. There was a room filled with instruments, a room full of mirrors, an... empty room, and a room that was positively gushing artwork. Alfred let out a small noise of bewilderment. Apparently that staircase didn't quite lead to a basement....  
Alfred sighed, suddenly wishing he hadn't just bypassed all the closed doors on the way to... well, wherever he was. Maybe then he could get his bearings.  
Shaking his head and letting out one last frustrated huff, he stalked off. He had stuck around just long enough to hear Antonio's tale. Then he had quietly slipped out the door, wandered into an abandoned classroom, and proceeded to have a mental breakdown worthy of a Guinness World Record. Because Arthur was gay. GAY. What the ever loving fuck was Alfred supposed to do with that?  
He was still panicking when four things struck him.  
Arthur was gay.  
Francis was... questionable.  
Francis had been attuned to Arthur quite a bit today.  
And finally-  
Francis and Arthur were probably together right now.  
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a jealous gay sonuvabitch in an absolutely stunning display of suffocationg denial. Because what did our lovely little homophobe do? Why, immediately forget all of his confusions, doubts, and denials (and undertones of self loathing...s... can you put an “s” on that without violating any grammar rules?) fly into a blind rage, and vow to protect Arthur's innocence.  
Oh, Alfred, you poor, fucked up boy.  
We could speculate, and say that perhaps the dear was in shock. After all, his world was crumbling around him. Well, Alfred thought.  
Little did he know, little did any of them know, that this was only the beginning.  
And so, dear reader, I'm afraid I must abuse my omnipotence once more in order to direct your attention to a certain Russian. A Russian who brought with him, a war and a conflict that spanned back to before Arthur's birth.

 

 

Ivan was almost ready. He had all of his favorite toys, including his iron pipe. His lavender eyes swept over the room once more, checking for any wayward item he might have missed. When he was satisfied that none of his playthings had been misplaced, he hefted his bag onto his shoulders and boarded one of his cars.  
His driver left him at a small junction just before his destination. He spent a good fifteen minutes trekking towards his goal; Ivan might be a large man, but he could be fast when he wanted to be. Miles turned to yards, which turned to feet, which turned to inches. Soon, he was scaling the tree conveniently underneath his target, creeping through the open window, and landing with hardly a sound into the room of Arthur Kirkland.  
Ivan smiled as he began to set up. Some of his toys were more innocent, like cameras and mics. Others, such as the multiple dots of poison sacs he placed strategically around the room (to be activated only if Ivan was displeased, of course) were decidedly less so.  
Eventually, Ivan sat back on his new toy's bed. He was done setting up, now all he had to do was wait for the guest of honor. He had a debt to settle, and his people never forgot what was owed to them. A promise had been made; a promise must be kept. He didn't really care about the circumstances under which the promise was fulfilled.  
For the third time today, Ivan smiled. He had high hopes for this one; he didn't seem the type to break so easily. Maybe this would finally be the one that lasted a full week! He let out a small sound of satisfaction, a strange laugh with decidedly deadly undertones.  
As he waited, he began to fantasize about what methods of “persuasion” he would use. Eventually though, he shrugged off his musings. No matter what he did, he would get his way. He always did.  
After all, those who crossed Ivan Braginski, crossed the Russian mafia. And those who crossed the Russian mafia ended up six feet under. In various states of decay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so drop me a review to tell me how I'm doing! Because those seriously help, you guys. thanks for reading, see ya soon!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm…. Holy shit am I sorry.

When Arthur awoke, it was to the obnoxious screaming of the alarm on his phone. He groaned, easing his beaten back off of the unforgiving ground. Rubbing his temple with one hand, he allowed the other to reach over and shut off the blaring tones currently laying siege to the inside of his head. When all was blessedly silent once more, he popped the muscles of his back and neck, groaning at the pleasant relief the action brought.  
When he figured he could put it off no longer, he stood, slinging his guitar case over his shoulder in the process. He had set the alarm to sound an hour before three, hopefully allowing himself enough time to find his way out of... well, wherever he was, get home, and, sanguinely, have some down time to settle some of his shit before he had to “get home from school”. Arthur snorted. As if Renier actually cared about his education. Bloody arse just wanted an excuse to punish him, and what better guise than that of “parenting”? Arthur frowned. Maybe… maybe he was parenting. Or, not parenting, per say, but- maybe Arthur’s punishment wasn’t unreasonable. Maybe there was something so terribly wrong with him that putting him through this hell was the only way to correct it. He had driven his brothers off, after all, and he had let his own mother fall to a near catatonic state. He had got into fights that left people crippled, he had enabled young ones and let down so, so many people. His gaze found its way to the ground. But he knew all this, knew he deserved hell for his sins, but… not this, right?

… Right?

Silently, he started home.

 

 

Ivan was bored. Which, of course, was the whole reason he had come out here in the first place. Well, part of the reason. He didn't technically have to be out here so soon. He knew he had his target; he knew where the target lived and went to school. Usually, they would observe from afar for some time; to make absolutely sure that this was, indeed, who they were after. Then came bugging them, and, after observing them via the bugs, then they were confronted with demands. What Ivan was doing was... unorthodox. But then, this whole situation was unorthodox.  
And, kind of important. There were very, very many lives that depended on making this work, on fulfilling the promise that had been made. But honestly, that was in the back of Ivan's mind. The main reason Ivan found himself going through Arthur Kirkland's laptop at two in the afternoon, was the simple fact that he was intrigued.  
The Kirklands were an old family, and were plastered everywhere throughout history. Not in name, no, they were better than that. But if one dug deep enough, without fail, they would find the Kirkland family. In every single noteworthy event through time. The assassination of Abraham Lincoln, JFK, hell, even Hitler. People, places, events, all over the world and all throughout time held not a hint, not a whisper, but the shadow of the barest wisp of the Kirkland family.  
So imagine the delight of Ivan’s father at having found them first. Now all they had to do was make them cooperate.  
Ivan winced, just the tiniest spasm of a single facial muscle, before he covered it with a bright smile. With no one there to witness it, it was all rather pointless, but habits were good to maintain at all times, lest you slip when it really matters. His mind turned over again his problem, because you see, the Kirklands were not known for their cooperation. Now, given Ivan’s, ah, unusual skill set, this would normally not be a problem. The Mafia was not a thing to be trifled with, after all. But with the Kirklands….  
Ivan felt an uncomfortable chill travel up his spine. He summoned up his doll house smile, twisting around the office chair to give him an unrestricted view of the room. Something was nagging at him….   
He froze, listening intently, before slowly standing to make his way to the room’s only window. He squinted; he was sure he had-there.  
Arthur Kirkland (age 17, born… somewhere in the British Isles) was lazily making his way down the road, guitar strung over his back and hands deep in his pockets. Ivan cocked his head, curious. Arthur’s shoulders were hunched, his head down. He was the very picture of a man plagued by a thousand and one demons, and who knows? Perhaps he was. Ivan didn’t care, it wasn’t his job to care. Smiling sweetly, he cocked his head to the other side, examining his soon to be prey. He really was quite striking… hm, perhaps his actions would be forgiven if Arthur refused to pay, if he used them as a warning. Or, perhaps such incentives would not be needed, and he could simply seduce him. Ivan was not an unattractive man, and had, on occasion, been called charming. It had been a while since he had played such pandering games. Ah, but what happened to habits?  
Ivan turned away from the window with a dark chuckle and an angelic smile. He knew he shouldn’t, knew that it wasn’t wise, but what could he say? He had always been helplessly drawn to danger.

 

Arthur had completely shut down by the time he had managed to drag himself to his personal hell; home. He slunk into the shadows around the house, stealing through the semi darkness of the imperfect cover, in the hope that it might protect him from any (Renier’s) prying eyes. Slipping through the last of the shade, he darted across the decrepit lawn to the base of his gnarled tree, ascending the acrimonious branches at a speed that left the skin of his palms in the dust. He popped his window opened quickly, flitting through it with the ease of one who had become far to used to unconventional means of exit and entrance. He slung off his guitar quickly, throwing it gently onto the bed before stripping off his suffocating jacket. He was absently rubbing at his stitched up cut when he felt it. Arthur froze, emerald eyes flickering across his room. Arthur’s new/old room had an actual lock on it; one that required a key, not those bullshit could-pop-it-with-a-toothpick button locks. Arthur had been very, very careful to lock his door last night, and had been even more careful to string the key around his neck, where it occasionally clanged against the frankly astounding number of trinkets Arthur had hung about his neck and tucked under his shirt for safe keeping. So why the fuck was his room so bloody fucked up?  
It wouldn’t have been obvious to someone else, hell, probably anyone else, but to Arthur it was as if Obvious Incarnate had come and painted certain things in his room with glowing neon pixels. That book had been tilted two centimeters to the left, his desk chair had been slightly facing the door instead of the desk, and his laptop had NOT been at that godawful angle. I mean, he was tall, but bloody hell, that was ridiculous. There were new wrinkles that had appeared on his sheets and old wrinkles that had vanished without a trace, and holy fuck, hadn’t that window been open when he left?  
Arthur swallowed thickly, cursing his brief lack of apparently any cognitive ability that had led to him brashly barging into a room that was possibly housing a less than welcome visitor. Arthur’s only questions; who the fuck was it, and where the hell were they? (Well, the only domineering questions; the others either depended upon the answers to these questions or just paled in comparison.) His head turned slowly as his mind sorted through possibilities. Renier was far too large to fit through Arthur’s miniscule window; but how could it be anyone else? He had been here for one bloody day, for fucks sake, he shouldn’t have made any enemies yet!   
Arthur paused in his scouring to wince. Okay, revising; he shouldn’t have enemies that know where he lives yet! Arthur resisted the urge to chuckle darkly, instead refocusing his attentions to the latter of the two prevalent questions. His bed was far too small for anything human, regardless of age, to hide under. He had already established that the alcove beneath his desk was uninhabited, and he had no curtains up to block the sun’s probing rays. His room was not large by any means, he had virtually no space in which one could hide. Which meant either, A) his invader had already left, and this whole venture was relatively pointless, or B) they were in the bathroom.   
Arthur’s fingers ghosted over the jacket now splayed across his desk, before reaching within its battered folds to withdraw a-rather intimidating- military knife. (a U.S. SOG SEAL TEAM ELITE SE37-K, to be precise, but who the hell took the time to think about that in these types of situations?  
…Oh.) Fingers curling securely around the knife’s grooved handle, he slowly crept towards the bathroom- before the door casually opened to reveal a bloke about seventeen centimeters taller than himself. Arthur had less than a second to break him down- broad shoulders firm build muscles on his muscles DO NOT DIRECTLY ENGAGE- before he acted, flying at the invader and slipping between him and the door frame, grabbing his arm and applying his momentum to simultaneously swing himself behind the man and throw the bloke against the wall. Arthur flicked his knife up to the pale skin of the large man’s throat, silently thanking whatever might be out there that the wall wasn’t so far away. If it had been any further, and if Arthur had not taken him by surprise, Arthur was sure the man before him would have easily resisted his attack.  
The man was perfectly still under his knife, and though Arthur was curious about his face, he was not foolish enough to unpin the lad. Arthur narrowed his eyes, examining. Now that he actually had time to look, he could see that the malefactor he had at knife point was more lad than man, despite the bulk of muscle that rivaled even Alfred’s. Arthur shook his head. He had neither the time nor the patience to have that daft yank bouncing about within his skull.  
Arthur dug his blade into the lad’s throat, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make his point.  
“Who are you, laddie? No lyin’ or my blade’ll be tastin’ whatever ye got flowin’ in yer veins, ye ken?” Sometimes Arthur was very glad that he had been all around Britain so often, both in younger and older years. It made bringing out his Scottish accent so much easier.  
To his credit, the lad beneath him still had not moved a muscle. Arthur couldn’t help but be slightly- slightly- impressed. It took a lot of self-control to be so still in such dire circumstances.  
“You ask heavy question, I was not expecting to find myself psycho-analyzed the moment of meeting. My name is Ivan Braginsky- no great answer to such daunting question, I know, but it is start.”  
Ho. Ly. SHIT.   
It took an enormous amount of self-control to keep himself from bursting into hysterics. This little fucker was cheeky! Arthur allowed himself a slight grin (he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head as far as Arthur could tell, so he figured he was good on this front) before brushing those feelings aside to sort through what he’d learned.  
The boy’s voice was nowhere near the depth of pitch he’d been expecting, and neither was the accent. Russian, with passable English, suggesting that he had not been I the country to terribly long. His voice had been stable- it had even had a hint of amusement in it! This boy was either a wonderful actor, or not frightened in the slightest. Which meant, by extension, that he was either very stupid, or very dangerous.  
“Listen, ye tealeafin’ ned,” he said, grinning evilly,” ah dinnae like a mokkit kipper like you slinkin’aboot ma hoose! An at this hour! Bampot, eidgit, twat, feckwit, divvy! Oan yer bike, ye heidbanger! Oan yer trolley, ye heidcase! Yir nabbed, an if ye dinnae do as ah ask- chibbed, dun in, a kickin, leathered, skudded. Understand?” He had kept it fairly simple. Maybe the boggin tube got some of that. Arthur blinked rapidly. It was easy to slip back into Scottish slang- too easy. He mentally corrected himself- Maybe the DIRTY IDIOT got some of that.  
When said idiot turned slightly to give Arthur the most ridiculously baffled look anyone could ever manage, it was clear that he had not, in fact, “got it”. Arthur couldn’t help it; he doubled over with laughter, knife falling away from his trespasser’s throat as his arms curled around his stomach. Ivan, thankfully, did not take this opportunity to do anything other than turn around to face Arthur head on. 

ARTHUR==> BE IVAN  
Oh, FUCK no, no Homestuck in THIS fanfiction, motherfucker. Now, where was I?

Ivan had known that Arthur Kirkland was handsome, but he had not been prepared for the six feet of vicious British punk that would physically assault him by way of greeting. He had actually pinned him! Ivan thought he might swoon.  
And then he’d gone off into that beautiful Scottish brogue as naturally as if he were born and raised in the Highlands. Sure, Ivan hadn’t understood a single word of it, but the deep reverberating rise and fall of his gorgeous voice was worth every ounce of confusion.  
Ivan wondered what that beautiful tone would sound like screaming. There was really no way to tell other than testing it- some people could speak in voices that had glass shattering across the globe, then turn around and scream a deep roar that was better suited in a lions maw. He’d love to make that rough voice rougher, to make it frantic with fear, to take Arthur’s daring, damning, pride and crush it beneath his heel. He would take this British spitfire and suck its flames from its soul, drown in its lava pools and revel in the glorious heat as he drained the Brit dry. And then, of course, he’d have to move on to the next toy, but right now, right now there was a live, well, and very amused specimen before him.  
Ivan really hoped Arthur refused to cooperate. At least then he wouldn’t have to make an excuse to, ah, “justify” his actions.   
…  
It’d been a bit, shouldn’t he have stopped laughing by now?  
…maybe he had a condition? Like in that one British movie… oh what was it? Hell, did it even matter? Was this something only Brits could get? Oh, he’s easing up now.  
“You will not float up to ceiling, da?” Ivan eyed him skeptically as Arthur slowly uncurled himself from- well, himself. At Ivan’s comment Arthur jerked up, giving the Russian mafio his first clear look at the punk.  
Oh. Well. Shit. Is that shade of green on the color spectrum? Was that a dragon in his ear? Those eyes were going to melt into acid any moment now, he was sure of it. The man before him was still staring at him, radioactive eyes wide and lips parted in an astonished gape. Then they twitched, ever so slightly. Still open, his mouth quirked into a grin and the smallest of chuckles bubbled up within him, spilling out until he was once again in full-fledged hysterics, laughing as if his life depended on it.  
The sight only made Ivan want to see that face twisted in pain, desperation, fear and hate and- fuck. He had gone and given himself a, er, problem.   
His long coat would cover him, so he needn’t worry about being seen. All he needed to think about was where he wanted to take this from here.

IVAN==>BE ARTHUR  
(“HOMESTUCK! Get OUT of my fanfiction!”  
“But I’m your moirail!”  
“That does not give you a free pass to muck around in my fandom!”  
“But Hetaaalliiaaaaaaaa~”  
“Don’t you make me call Sherlock!”  
“Fine! I’m gone, I’m gone.”  
HOMESTUCK==>ABSCOND) 

Arthur’s wild guffaws subsided as he felt a strange sort of discontent- wait what? Ah who cares, the Russian had actually thought you were going to pull a Mary Poppins and have tea on the ceiling.  
It was too beautiful not to laugh at.

 

 

You are now Alfred Jones, and… you are not quite sure why the author is using this point of view. You suddenly become aware of the fact that the AUTHOR is not sure why she is using this point of view. The author suddenly becomes aware of the fact that she is currently referring to herself in the third person.  
… And I just realized I made Alfred self-aware.  
Fuck that noise.  
DELETEDELETEDELETEDELETEDELETEDELETEDELETEDELETEDELETE

Alfred shook his head violently, which, well, only made his headache worse. What just happened…? Ouch. Whoa. Okay, thinking about that also hurt. Alfred was pretty sure that was the signal, from whatever deity presiding over this world, to stop thinking about it. So he did. But not before he acknowledged the shittiness of said deity. Who makes a kid cut themselves?  
As another blinding stab of pain drove through his head, Alfred shot a glare towards the ceiling and grumbled the door before him. He didn’t know why he was even bothering, apparently all the classrooms down here were locked. So when the handle gave beneath his hand, he stumbled down a bit. He quickly shot a look around, finding with relief, that he was still alone. He turned his attention toward the handle once more, face burning, as he exerted the proper amount of force on the handle. It turned easily, admitting him entrance with nary a squeak of protest.  
He stepped forward gently, fumbling along the wall until he found a light switch. Flipping it on, he blinked in shock. He had found the dungeon! Okay, so it wasn’t really a dungeon, it was just a theater room under the stairs, but calling it The Dungeon was so much cooler! Besides, all the mannequins and masks were really creepy, and some of them had fake blood on them or swords through them. So… it was kinda like a dungeon….  
Alfred might have taken the time to explore The Dungeon more thoroughly, had he not happened to notice the door tucked into the corner of the room. Sprinting forwards, (and definitely NOT tripping over props and shit, because that’s just not what super heroes do) he flung the door open wide and raced up the staircase, popping out of a set of double doors at the top and into the school yard.  
Alfred pumped his fist, celebrating his daring escape from the vicious claws of The Dungeon. He studied the door with a(n over)confidant smirk, memorizing the spot. He was so coming down here later to do some snoop- exploring. With a sudden frown, Alfred realized that he still hadn’t found Arthur. Grousing under his breath, he stalked off, deciding that the two faggots could screw themselves into oblivion together. What did he care? After all, they just forced him to brave the depths of the school! And all because they wanted to go off and be… be… unnatural together!  
“Well, fuck them,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and stalking through the biology room doors. The Science Club-who used the class after lunch, huh, when had the lunch bell rang?- stared at him with wide, frozen eyes. He snorted, slamming the door to the hall open and letting it clang shut behind him. Now really, REALLY pissed off, he sulked towards Calculus.  
Fuck both of those damn pansies.

 

 

Gilbert… looked above him in vague shock. Huh. It really wasn’t there. He threw a brief thumbs up towards the fourth wall, before quickly refocusing on the teacher. He hated English Lit. Really, who wanted to read what someone wrote one hundred years ago- but wait, someone else has rewritten it! In ACTUAL ENGLISH! What tyranny is this? Fiend! Philistine! Thou doth darest to deny the unwanton beauty of Shakespearian English? Yes I Do! How dare ye! I hereby challenge thee to a duel… to the death! BOOM! Fuck yeah, Prussian sharpshooters are the best! Except that wouldn’t actually make a boom…  
Gilbert blinked. He was more bored than he had thought. He finally managed to tune back in to what the teacher was saying in time to catch her telling the class about new students. Twins, apparently. Italian. A girl beside him raised her hand.  
“Yes Tabitha?” Huh, so that was her name. He’d been wondering… wait, had he dated her before?  
“Can they speak English?” Hmm… he thought so… she had a pretty generic voice….  
“Yes, perfectly. Though, I understand that they slip into Italian quite often, regardless.” Pretty generic face, too. No wonder it ended. You know, if it ever started.  
“Oh, okay, thank you!” Okay, it couldn’t have started. No way would he go out with someone as ordinary as her.  
“You’re very welcome!” Eh, couldn’t hurt to find out right? The bell rang not two seconds later, and Gilbert jerked his bag from his seat as he strode towards her.  
“Excuse me, but have we dated before?”  
…  
“And she never answered me!”   
“Bruder, that punch was answer enough.”  
“But she didn’t actually say we’d dated! Maybe she just thought I was an asshole for not being able to remember!”  
“She definitely thought that.”  
“But that could go either way! You see what I mean?”  
Ludwig sighed. “Yes, I see what you mean. Now will you put your gear on?” Gilbert huffed, hurriedly throwing on the rest of his football gear (Americans and their football, he’d never get used to calling it that. But he was a damn sight better at it than he was at footb- er, soccer) and grabbing his helmet before racing out onto the field to warm up with the rest of his team. He briefly wondered what Arthur was doing before passing a hand over his face. He couldn’t go there right now, there was just… too much to sort out.  
But suddenly the scars made a whole lot more sense. And Gil- who totally hated the unnatural bastards- wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He wasn’t sure about much right now, to be honest.   
But again, this was a topic for later thought. Right now, he had a game to play.

 

 

“WHAT THE BLOODY FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU’VE BEEN WATCHING ME?” Arthur didn’t think that damn smile could look any more terrifying. He was a bloody fifteen year old, for shits sake! He was NOT supposed to be so damn intimidating, nor was he supposed to be playing with a pipe that looked as if it was covered in dried blood. Which, given Arthur’s recent enlightenment, it might have been. 

 

It was too beautiful not to laugh at.

The author has suddenly decided to be an asshole and make you wait for the next chapter. The author has no regrets, and has also decide that he quite like referring to himself in third person. She just happens to enjoy messing with the minds of her readers. It was a bad habit of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for homophobia, random author inserts, bad puns, general dumbassery, and most of all, Homestuck references. All the references. All of them.
> 
> But seriously, leave comments and flames and cupcakes made of lava. I’m moving to a wayyyyyyyy more difficult school four hours away tomorrow, so I wanted to get the chapter out now. Sorry for any grammar or spelling!

**Author's Note:**

> okay, i have a bad habit of leaving cliff hangers. anyways, leave a review and all that! Ciao!


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